THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

GIFT  OF 
Ada  Nisbet 


ENGLISH  READING  ROOM 


JUL  17  1986 


\ 


THE  PARISIANS. 


THE   PARISIANS 


BY 


NEW  YORK 

THE  CASSELL  PUBLISHING  CO. 
31  BAST  17™  ST.  (UNION  SQUARE) 


TH2  MERRHON  COMPANY  PRESS, 
RAHWAY,  N.  J. 


INTRODUCTORY  CHAPTER. 


THEY  who  chance  to  have  read  "  The  Coming  Race  "  may  perhaps  re- 
member that  I,  the  adventurous  discoverer  of  the  land  without  a  sun,  con- 
cluded the  sketch  of  my  adventures  by  a  brief  reference  to  the  malady  which, 
though  giving  no  perceptible  notice  of  its  encroachments,  might,  in  the  opin- 
ion of  my  medical  attendant,  prove  suddenly'fatal. 

I  had  brought  my  little  book  to  this  somewhat  melancholy  close  a  few 
years  before  the  date  of  its  publication,  and,  in  the  mean  while,  I  was  in- 
duced to  transfer  my  residence  to  Paris,  in  order  to  place  myself  under  the 
care  of  an  English  physician,  renowned  for  his  successful  tieatment  of  com- 
plaints analogous  to  my  own. 

I  was  the  more  readily  persuaded  to  undertake  this  journey,  partly  be- 
cause I  enjoyed  a  familiar  acquaintance  with  the  eminent  physician  referred 
to,  who  had  commenced  his  career  and  founded  his  reputation  in  the  United 
States,  partly  because  1  had  beome  a  solitary  man,  the  ties  of  home  broken, 
and  dear  friends  of  mine  were  domiciled  in  Paris,  with  whom  I  should  be 
sure  of  tender  sympathy  and  cheerful  companionship.  I  had  reason  to  be 

thankful  for  this  change  of  residence  :  the  skill  of  Dr.  C soon  restond 

me  tu  health.  Brought  much  into  contact  with  various  circles  of  Parisian 
society,  I  became  acquainted  with  the  persons,  and  a  witness  of  the  events, 
that  form  the  substance  of  the  tale  I  am  about  to  submit  to  the  public,  which 
has  treated  my  former  book  with  so  generous  an  indulgence.  Sensitively 
tenacious  of  that  character  for  strict  and  unalloyed  veracity,  which,  I  flatter 
myself,  my  account  of  the  abodes  and  manners  of  the  Vrilaya  has  estab- 
lished, I  could  have  wished  to  preserve  the  following  narrative  no  less  jeal- 
ously guarded  than  its  predecessor  from  the  vagaries  of  fancy.  But  Truth 
undisguised,  never  welcome  in  any  civilized  community  above  ground,  is  ex- 
posed at  this  time  to  especial  dangers  in  Paris  ;  and  my  life  would  not  be 
worth  an  hour's  purchase  if  I  exhibited  her  in  puris  naturalibis  to  the 
eyes  of  a  people  wholly  unfamiliarized  to  a  spectacle  so  indecorous.  That 
care  for  one's  personal  safety,  which  is  the  first  duty  of  thoughtful  man, 
compels  me  therefore  to  reconcile  the  appearance  of  la  Fi/rzY/  to  the 
KeiuAttua  of  the  polished  society  in  which  la  /./for //admits  no  opinion  not 
dressed  after  the  last  fashion. 

Attired  as  fiction.  Truth  may  be  peacefully  received  ;  and,  despite  the 
necessity  thus  imposed  by  prudence,  I  indulge  the  modest  hope  that  I  do 
not  in  these  pages  unfai  hfully  represent  certain  prominent  types  of  t'ie  bril- 
liant population  which  has  invented  so  many  varieties  of  Koom-Posh  ;  * 

*  Koom-Posh,  Glek-Xas.  For  the  derivation  of  these  terms  and  their  metaphorical  sig- 
nification, I  must  refer  the  reader  to  "  The  Coming  Race,"  chapter  xii.,  on  the  language  of 
the  Vril-ya.  To  those  who  have  not  read  or  have  forgotten  that  historical  composition,  it 
may  be  convenient  to  state  briefly  that  Koom-Pcsh  with  the  Vr.l-ya  is  the  name  of  the  gov- 
ernment of  the  many,  or  the  ascendancy  of  the  most  ignorant  or  hollow,  and  may  be 
joosely  rendered  Hollow-Bosh.  When  Koom-Posh  degenerates  from  popular  ignorance 
into  the  popular  ferocity  which  precedes  its  decease,  the  name  for  that  state  of  things  ii 
Glek-Nas,  viz  ,  the  universal  strife-rot. 


IV  INTRODUCTORY    CHAPTER. 

and  even  when  it  appears  hopelessly  lost  in  the  slough  of  a  Glek-nas,  re- 
emerges  fresh  and  lively  as  if  from  an  invigorating  plunge  into  the  Fountain 
of  Youth.  O  Paris,  foyer  des  idfas,  et  ceil  du  monde  ! — animated  contrast  to 
the  serene  tranquillity  of  the  Vril-ya,  which,  nevertheless,  thy  noisiest  philos- 
ophers ever  pretend  to  make  the  goal  of  their  desires — of  all  communities  on 
which  shines  the  sun  and  descend  the  rains  of  heaven,  fertilizing  alike  wis- 
dom and  folly,  virtue  and  vice,  in  every  city  men  have  yet  built  on  this 
enrth,  mayest  thou,  O  Paris,  be  the  last  to  brave  the  wants  of  the  Coming 
Race  and  be  reduced  into  cinders  for  the  sake  of  the  common  good  ! 

TlSH. 
PARIS,  A  ugust  28,  1872. 


THE  PARISIANS. 


BOOK  I. 


CHAPTER  I. 

IT  was  a  bright  day  in  the  early  spring  of  1869.  All  Paris 
seemed  to  have  turned  out  to  enjoy  itself.  The  Tuileries,  the 
Champs  Elysees,  the  Bois  de  Boulogne,  swarmed  with  idlers. 
A  stranger  might  have  wondered  where  Toil  was  at  work,  and 
in  what  nook  Poverty  lurked  concealed.  A  millionnaire  from 
the  London  Exchange,  as  he  looked  round  on  the  magasins, 
the  equipages,  the  dresses  of  the  women  ;  as  he  inquired  the 
prices  in  the  shops  and  the  rent  of  apartments,  might  have 
asked  himself,  in  envious  wonder,  How  on  earth  do  those  gay 
Parisians  live  ?  What  is  their  fortune  ?  Where  does  it  come 
from  ? 

As  the  day  declined,  many  of -the  scattered  loungers  crowded 
into  the  Boulevards  ;  the  cafes  and  restaurants  began  to  fill  up. 

About  this  time  a  young  man,  who  might  be  some  five  or  six 
and  twenty,  was  walking  along  the  Boulevard  des  Italiens, 
heeding  little  the  throng  through  which  he  glided  his  solitary 
way  :  there  was  that  in  his  aspect  and  bearing  which  caught 
attention.  He  looked  a  somebody  ;  but  though  unmistakably 
a  Frenchman,  not  a  Parisian.  His  dress  was  not  in  the  pre- 
vailing mode  ;  to  a  practised  eye  it  betrayed  the  taste  and  the 
cut  of  a  provincial  tailor.  His  gait  was  not  that  of  the  Paris- 
ian— less  lounging,  more  stately  ;  and,  unlike  the  Parisian,  he 
seemed  indifferent  to  the  gaze  of  others. 

Nevertheless  there  was  about  him  that  air  of  dignity  or  dis- 
tinction which  those  who  are  reared  from  their  cradle  in  the 
pride  of  birth  acquire  so  unconsciously  that  it  seems  hereditary 
and  inborn.  It  must  also  be  confessed  that  the  young  man 
himself  was  endowed  with  a  considerable  share  of  that  nobility 
which  Nature  capriciously  distributes  among  her  favorites,  with 
little  respect  for  their  pedigree  and  blazon — the  nobility  of  form 
and  face.  He  was  tall  and  well-shaped,  with  graceful  length 


6  THE    PARISIANS. 

of  limb  and  fall  of  shoulders  ;  his  face  was  handsome,  of  the 
purest  type  of  French  masculine  beauty — the  nose  inclined  to 
be  aquiline,  and  delicately  thin,  with  finely  cut  open  nostrils  ; 
the  complexion  clear,  the  eyes  large,  of  a  light  hazel,  with  dark 
lashes,  the  hair  of  a  chestnut  brown,  with  no  tint  of  auburn,  the 
beard  and  moustache  a  shade  darker,  clipped  short,  not  dis* 
guising  the  outline  of  lips  which  were  now  compressed,  as  if 
smiles  had  of  late  been  unfamiliar  to  them  ;  yet  such  compres- 
sion did  hot  seem  in  harmony  with  the  physiognomical  charac- 
ter of  their  formation,  which  was  that  assigned  by  Lavater  to 
temperaments  easily  moved  to  gayetyand  pleasure. 

Another  man,  about  his  own  age,  coming  quickly  out  of  one  of 
the  streets  of  the  Chaussee  d'Antin,  brushed  close  by  the  stately 
pedestrian  above  described,  caught  sight  of  his  countenance, 
stopped  short,  and  exclaimed,  "  Alain  !  "  The  person  thus 
abruptly  accosted  turned  his  eye  tranquilly  on  the  eager  face, 
of  which  all  the  lower  part  was  enveloped  in  black  beard  ;  and 
slightly  lifting  his  hat,  with  a  gesture  of  the  head  that  implied, 
"Sir,  you  are  mistaken  ;  I  have  not  the  honor  4o  know  you," 
continued  his  slow  indifferent  way.  The  would-be  acquaint- 
ance was  not  so  easily  rebuffed.  "  Pcste"  he  said,  between  his 
teeth,  "  I  am  certainly  right.  He  is  not  much  altered  ;  of 
course  /  am ;  ten  years  of  Paris  would  improve  an  orang- 
outang." Quickening  his  step,  and  regaining  the  side  of  the 
man  he  had  called  "  Alain,"  he  said,  with  a  well-bred  mixture 
of  boldness  and  courtesy  in  his  tone  and  countenance  : 

"Ten  thousand  pardons  if  I  am  wrong.  But  surely  I  accost 
Alain  de  Kerouec,  son  of  the  Marquis  de  Rochebriant." 

"  True,  sir  ;  but — " 

"  But  you  do  not  remember  me,  your  old  college  friend, 
Frederic  Lemercier?  " 

"  Is  it  possible  ?  "  cried  Alain  cordially,  and  with  an  anima- 
tion which  changed  the  whole  character  of  his  countenance. 
"  My  dear  Frederic,  my  dear  friend,  this  is  indeed  good  for- 
tune !  So  you,  too,  are  at  Paris  ?  " 

"  Of  course  ;  and  you  ?  Just  come,  I  perceive,"  he  added 
somewhat  satirically,  as,  linking  his  arm  in  his  new-found 
friend's,  he  glanced  at  the  cut  of  that  friend's  coat-collar. 

"  I  have  been  here  a  fortnight,"  replied  Alain. 

"  Hem  !  I  suppose  you  lodge  in  the  old  Hotel  de  Roche- 
briant. I  passed  it  yesterday,  admiring  its  vast  fagade,  little 
thinking  you  were  its  inmate." 

"  Neither  am  I  ;  the  hotel  does  not  belong  to  me ;  it  was  sold 
some  years  ago  by  my  father." 


THE    PARISIANS.  7 

"  Indeed  !  I  hope  your  father  got  a  good  price  for  it ;  those 
grand  hotels  have  trebled  their  value  within  the  last  five 
years.  And  how  is  your  father  ?  Still  the  same  polished  grand 
seigneur  ?  I  never  saw  him  but  once,  you  know  ;  and  I  shall 
never  forget  his  smile,  style  grand  monarque,  when  he  patted 
me  on  the  head  and  tipped  me  ten  napoleons." 

"My  father  is  no  more,"  said  Alain  gravely  ;  "he  has  been 
dead  nearly  three  years." 

"  del !  forgive  me,  I  am  greatly  shocked.  Hem  !  So  you  are 
now  the  Marquis  de  Rochebriant,  a  great  historical  name, 
worth  a  large  sum  in  the  market.  Few  such  names  left. 
Superb  place  your  old  chateau,  is  it  not  ?" 

"  A  superb  place,  no  ;  a  venerable  ruin,  yes  !  " 

"  Ah,  a  ruin  !  So  much  the  better.  All  the  bankers  are  mad 
after  ruins — so  charming  an  amusement  to  restore  them.  You 
will  restore  yours,  without  doubt.  I  will  introduce  you  to  such 
an  architect !  Has  the  moyen  age  at  his  fingers'  ends.  Dear, 
but  a  genius." 

The  young  Marquis  smiled  ;  for  since  he  had  found  a  col- 
lege friend,  his  face  showed  that  it  could  smile  ;  smiled,  but 
not  cheerfully,  and  answered  : 

"  I  have  no  intention  to  restore  Rochebriant.  The  walls  are 
solid  ;  they  have  weathered  the  storms  of  six  centuries  ;  they 
will  last  my  time,  and  with  me  the  race  perishes." 

"Bah?  The  race  perish,  indeed!  You  will  marry.  Parlezmoi 
de  fa — you  could  not  come  to  a  better  man.  I  have  a  list  of 
all  the  heiresses  in  Paris,  bound  in  russia  leather.  You  may 
have  your  choice  out  of  twenty.  Ah,  if  I  were  but  a  Roche- 
briant !  It  is  an  infernal  thir^g  to  come  into  the  world  a  Le- 
mercier.  I  am  a  democrat,  of  course.  A  Lemercier  would  be 
in  a  false  position  if  he  were  not.  But  if  any  one  would  leave 
me  twenty  acres  of  land,  with  some  antique  right  to  the  De  and 
a  title,  faith,  would  not  I  be  an  aristocrat,  and  stand  up  for  my 
order  ?  But  now  we  have  met,  pray  let  us  dine  together.  Ah  ! 
No  doubt  you  are  engaged  every  day  for  a  month.  A  Roche- 
briant just  new  to  Paris  must  be/<?//by  all  the  Faubourg." 

"  No,"  answered  Alain  simply,  "  I  am  not  engaged  ;  my  range 
of  acquaintance  is  more  circumscribed  than  you  suppose." 

"  So  much  the  better  for  me.  I  am  luckily  disengaged  to- 
day, which  is  not  often  the  case,  for  I  am  in  some  request  in 
my  own  set,  though  it  is  not  that  of  the  Faubourg.  Where 
shall  we  dine?  At  the  Trois  Freres?" 

"  Wherever  you  please.  I  know  no  restaurant  at  Paris,  ex- 
cept a  very  ignoble  one,  close  by  my  lodging." 


8  THE    PARISIANS. 

"  Apropos,  where  do  you  lodge  r  " 

"  Rue  de  1'Universite,  Numero  — ." 

"  A  fine  street,  but  tiiste.  If  you  have  no  longer  your  family 
hotel,  you  have  no  excuse  to  linger  in  that  museum  of  mum- 
mies, the  Faubourg  St  Germain  ;  you  must  go  into  one  of  the 
new  quarters  by  the  Champs  Elysees.  Leave  it  to  me  ;  I'll 
find  you  a  charming  apartment.  I  know  one  to  be  had  a 
bargain — a  bagatelle — 500  naps  a  year.  Cost  you  about  two 
or  three  thousand  more  to  furnish  tolerably,  not  showily. 
Leave  all  to  me.  In  three  days  you  shall  be  settled.  Apropos  ! 
horses  !  You  must  have  English  ones.  How  many  ?  Three 
for  the  saddle,  two  for  your  coupe"  ?  I'll  find  them  for  you. 
I  will  write  to  London  to-morrow.  Reese  (Rice)  is  your  man." 

"  Spare  yourself  that  trouble,  my  dear  Frederic.  I  keep  no 
horses  and  no  coupe.  I  shall  not  change  my  apartment."  As 
he  said  this,  Rochebriant  drew  himself  up  somewhat  haughtily. 

"  Faith,"  thought  Lemercier,  "  is  it  possible  that  the  Marquis 
is  poor  ?  No,  I  have  always  heard  that  the  Rochebriants  were 
among  the  greatest  proprietors  in  Bretagne.  Most  likely,  with 
all  his  innocence  of  the  Faubourg  St.  Germain,  he  knows  enough 
of  it  to  be  aware  that  I,  Frederic  Lemercier,  am  not  the  man 
to  patronize  one  of  its  greatest  nobles.  Sac  re  bleu  !  If  I 
thought  that  ;  if  he  meant  to  give  himself  airs  to  me,  his  old 
college  friend— I  would  call  him  out." 

Just  as  M.  Lemercier  had  come  to  that  bellicose  resolution, 
the  Marquis  said,  with  a  smile  which,  though  frank,  was  not 
without  a  certain  grave  melancholy  in  its  expression  :  "  My 
dear  Frederic,  pardon  me  if  I  seem  to  receive  your  friendly 
offers  ungraciously.  But  believe,  that  I  have  reasons  you  will 
approve  for  leading  at  Paris  a  life  which  you  certainly  will  not 
envy  ";  then,  evidently  desirous  to  change  the  subject,  he 
said  in  a  livelier  tone  :  "  But  what  a  marvellous  city  this  Paris 
of  ours  is  !  Remember  I  had  never  seen  it  before  :  it  burst  on 
me  like  a  city  in  the  Arabian  Nights  two  weeks  ago.  And  that 
which  strikes  me  most — I  say  it  with  regret  and  a  pang  of 
conscience — is  certainly  not  the  Paris  of  former  times,  but  that 
Paris  which  M.  Buonaparte — I  beg  pardon,  which  the  Emper- 
or— has  called  up  around  him,  and  identified  forever  with  his 
reign.  It  is  what  is  new  in  Paris  that  strikes  and  enthrals  me. 
Here  I  see  the  life  of  France,  and  1  belong  to  her  tombs  !  " 

"  I  don't  quite  understand  you,"  said  Lemercier.  "  Jf  you 
think  that  because  your  father  and  grandfather  were  Legiti- 
mists, you  have  not  the  fair  field  of  living  ambition  open  to 
you  under  the  Empire,  you  never  were  more  mistaken.  Moyen 


THE    PARISIANS.  9 

Age,  and  even  rococo,  are  all  the  rage.  You  have  no  idea  how 
valuable  your  name  would  be  either  at  the  Imperial  Court  or  in 
a  Commercial  Company.  But  with  your  fortune  you  are  inde- 
pendent of  all  but  fashion  and  the  Jockey  Club.  And  apropos 
of  that — pardon  me — what  villain  made  your  coat  ?  Let  me 
know  ;  I  will  denounce  him  to  the  police." 

Half  amused,  half  amazed,  Alain  Marquis  de  Rochebriant 
looked  at  Frederic  Lemercier  much  as  a  good-tempered  lion 
may  look  upon  a  lively  poodle  who  takes  a  liberty  with  his 
mane,  and,,  after  a  pause,  he  replied  curtly:  "The  clothes  I 
wear  at  Paris  were  made  at  Bretagne  ;  and  if  the  name  of 
Rochebriant  be  of  any  value  at  all  in  Paris,  which  I  doubt,  let 
me  trust  that  it  will  make  me  acknowledged  as  geniilhoinme, 
whatever  my  taste  in  a  coat  or  whatever  the  doctrines  of  a  club 
composed — of  jockeys." 

"  Ha,  ha  !  "  cried  Lemercier,  freeing  himself  from  the  arm 
of  his  friend,  and  laughing  the  more  irresistibly  as  he  encoun- 
tered the  grave  look  of  the  Marquis.  "  Pardon  me,  I  can't  help 
it-*-the  Jockey  Club — composed  of  jockeys  !  It  is  too  much  ; 
the  best  joke  !  My  dear  Alain,  there  is  some  of  the  best  blood 
of  Europe  in  the  Jockey  Club  ;  they  would  exclude  a  plain 
bourgeois  like  me.  But  it  is  all  the  same  ;  in  one  respect  you 
are  quite  right.  Walk  in  a  blouse  if  you  please,  you  are  still 
Rochebriant ;  you  would  only  be  called  eccentric.  Alas  !  I 
am  obliged  to  send  to  London  for  my  pantaloons  ;  that  comes 
of  being  a  Lemercier.  But  here  we  are  in  the  Palais  Royal." 


CHAPTER    II. 

THE  salons  of  the  Trois  Freres  were  crowded  ;  our  friends 
found  a  table  with  some  little  difficulty.  Lemercier  proposed  a 
private  cabinet,  which,  for  some  reason  known  to  himself,  the 
Marquis  declined. 

Lemercier  spontaneously  and  unrequested  ordered  the  din- 
ner and  the  wines. 

W-hile  waiting  for  their  oysters,  with  which,  when  in  season, 
French  bon-virants  usually  commence  their  dinner,  Lemercier 
looked  round  the  salon  with  that  air  of  inimitable,  scrutinizing, 
superb  impertinence  which  distinguishes  the  Parisian  dandy. 
Some  of  the  ladies  returned  his  glance  coquettishly,  for  Lemer- 
cier was  beau  garfon;  others  turned  aside  indignantly,  and 
muttered  something  to  the  gentlemen  dining  with  them.  The 
said  gentlemen,  when  old,  shook  their  heads,  and  continued  to 


10  THE    PARISIANS. 

eat  unmoved  ;  when  young,  turned  briskly  round,  and  looked 
at  first  fiercely  at  M.  Lemercier,  but,  encountering  his  eye 
through  the  glass  which  he  had  screwed  into  its  socket,  notic- 
ing the  hardihood  of  his  countenance  and  the  squareness  of 
his  shoulders,  even  they  turned  back  to  the  tables,  shook  their 
heads,  and  continued  to  eat  unmoved,  just  like  the  old  ones. 

"  Ah  !  "  cried  Lemercier  suddenly,  "  here  comes  a  man  you 
should  know,  mon  cher.  He  will  tell  you  how  to  place  your 
money  ;  a  rising  man — a  coming  man — a  future  minister.  Ah, 
bonjour,  Duplessis,  ban  jour"  kissing  his  hand  to  a  gentleman 
who  had  just  entered,  and  was  looking  about  him  for  a  seat. 
He  was  evidently  well  and  favorably  known  at  the  Trois 
Freres.  The  waiters  had  flocked  round  him,  and  were  pointing 
to  a  table  by  the  window,  which  a  saturnine  Englishman,  who 
had  dined  off  a  beefsteak  and  potatoes,  was  about  to  vacate. 

Mons.  Duplessis,  having  first  assured  himself,  like  a  prudent 
man,  that  his  table  was  secure,  having  ordered  his  oysters,  his 
chablis,  and  \\\?>  potjge  a  la  bisque,  mow  paced  calmly  and  slowly 
across  the  salon,  and  halted  before  Lemercier. 

Here  let  me  pause  for  a  moment,  and  give  the  reader  a  rapid 
sketch  of  the  two  Parisians.  / 

Frederic  Lemercier  is  dressed,  somewhat  too  showily,  in  the 
extreme  of  the  prevalent  fashion.  He  wears  a  superb  pin  in 
his  cravat — a  pin  worth  2000  francs  ;  he  wears  rings  on  his  fin- 
gers, breloques  to  his  watch-chain.  He  has  a  warm  though  dark 
complexion,  thick  black  eyebrows,  full  lips,  a  nose  somewhat 
turned  up,  but  not  small,  very  fine,  large,  dark  eyes,  a  bold, 
open,  somewhat  impertinent  expression  of  countenance  ;  withal 
decidedly  handsome,  thanks  to  coloring,  youth,  and  vivacity  of 
"  regard." 

Lucien  Duplessis,  bending  over  the  table,  glancing  first  with 
curiosity  at  the  Marquis  de  Rochebriant,  who  leans  his  cheek 
on  his  hand  and  seems  not  to  notice  him,  then  concentrating 
his  attention  on  Frederic  Lemercier,  who  sits  square  with  his 
hands  clasped — Lucien  Duplessis  is  somewhere  between  forty 
and  fifty,  rather  below  the  middle  height,  slender,  but  not 
slight — what  in  English  phrase  is  called  "wiry."  He  is  dressed 
with  extreme  simplicity  :  black  frock-coat  buttoned  up  ;  black 
cravat  worn  higher  than  men  who  follow  the  fashions  wear  their 
neck-cloths  nowadays  ;  a  hawk's  eye  and  a  hawk's  beak  ;  hair 
of  a  dull  brown,  very  short,  and  wholly  without  curl ;  his  cheeks 
thin  and  smoothly  shaven,  but  he  wears  a  moustache  and  im- 
perial, plagiarized  from  those  of  his  sovereign,  and,  like  all  pla- 
giarisms, carrying  the  borrowed  beauty  to  extremes,  so  that  the 


THE    PARISIANS.  U 

points  of  moustache  and  '.mperial,  stiffened  and  sharpened  by 
cosmetics  which  must  have  been  composed  of  iron,  looked  like 
three  long  strings  guarding  lip  and  jaw  from  invasion  ;  a  pale, 
olive-brown  complexion  ;  eyes  small,  deep-sunk,  calm,  piercing  ; 
his  expression  of  face  at  first  glance  not  striking,  except  for  quiet 
immovability.  Observed  more  needfully,  the  expression  was 
keenly  intellectual ;  determined  about  the  lips,  calculating  about 
the  brows  :  altogether  the  face  of  no  ordinary  man,  and  one  not, 
perhaps,  without  fine  and  high  qualities,  concealed  from  the 
general  gaze  by  habitual  reserve,  but  justifying  the  confidence 
of  those  whom  he  admitted  into  his  intimacy. 

"Ah,  mon  c/ier,"  said  Lemercier,  "you  promised  to  call  on 
me  yesterday  at  two  o'clock.  I  waited  in  for  you  half  an  hour  ; 
you  never  came." 

"  No  ;  I  went  first  to  the  Bourse.  The  shares  in  that  Com- 
pany we  spoke  of  have  fallen  ;  they  will  fall  much  lower — foolish 
to  buy  in  yet ;  so  the  object  of  my  calling  on  you  was  over.  I 
took  it  for  granted  you  would  not  wait  if  I  failed  my  appoint- 
ment. Do  you  go  to  the  opera  to-night  ?  " 

"  I  think  not ;  nothing  worth  going  for  ;  besides,  I  have  found 
an  old  friend,  to  whom  I  consecrate  this  evening.  Let  me  in- 
troduce you  to  the  Marquis  de  Rochebriant.  Alain,  M.  Du- 
plessis." 

The  two  gentlemen  bowed. 

"I  had  the  honor  to  be  known  to  Monsieur  your  father,"  said 
Duplessis. 

"  Indeed  !  "  returned  Rochebriant.  "  He  had  not  visited 
Paris  for  many  years  before  he  died." 

"  It  was  in  London  I  met  him,  at  the  house  of  the  Russian 
Princess  C ." 

The  Marquis  colored  high,  inclined  his  head  gravely,  and 
made  no  reply.  Here  the  waiter  brought  the  oysters  and  the 
chablis,  and  Duplessis  retired  to  his  own  table. 

"  That  is  the  most  extraordinary  man,"  said  Frederic,  as  he 
squeezed  the  lemon  over  his  oysters,  "  and  very  much  to  be  ad- 
mired." 

"  How  so  ?  I  see  nothing  at  least  to  admire  in  his  face,"  said 
the  Marquis,  with  the  bluntness  of  a  provincial. 

"  His  face.  Ah!  you  are  a  Legitimist — party  prejudice.  He 
dresses  his  face  after  the  Emperor  ;  in  itself  a  very  clever  face, 
surely." 

"  Perhaps,  but  not  an  amiable  one.  He  looks  like  a  bird  of 
prey." 

"  All  clever  men  are  birds  of  prey.     The  eagles  are  the  heroes, 


12  THE    PARISIANS. 

and  the  owls  the  sages.  Duplessis  is  not  an  eagle  nor  an  owl. 
1  should  rather  call  him  a  falcon,  except  that  I  would  not  at- 
tempt to  hoodwink  him." 

"  Call  him  what  you  will,"  said  the  Marquis  indifferently ; 
"  M.  Duplessis  can  be  nothing  to  me." 

"  I  am  not  so  sure  of  that,"  answered  Frederic,  somewhat  net- 
tled by  the  phlegm  with  which  the  provincial  regarded  the  pre- 
tensions of  the  Parisian.  "  Duplessis,  I  repeat  it,  is  an  extraordi- 
nary man.  Though  unfilled,  he  descends  from  your  old  aris- 
tocracy ;  in  fact,  I  believe,  as  his  name  shows,  from  the  same 
stem  as  the  Richelieus.  His  father  was  a  great  scholar,  and  I 
believe  he  has  read  much  himself..  Might  have  distinguished 
himself  in  literature  or  at  the  bar,  but  his  parents  died  fearfully 
poor ;  and  some  distant  relations  in  commerce  took  charge  of 
him,  and  devoted  his  talents  to  the  Bourse.  Seven  years  ago 
he  lived  in  a  single  chamber,  an  quat>ieme,  near  the  Luxembourg. 
He  has  now  a  hotel,  not  large  but  charming,  in  the  Champs 
Elysees,  worth  at  least  600,000  francs.  Nor  has  he  made  his 
own  fortune-  alone,  but  that  of  many  others  ;  some  of  birth  as 
high  as  your  own.  He  has  the  genius  of  riches,  and  knocks  off 
a  million  as  a  poet  does  an  ode,  by  the  force  of  inspiration. 
He  is  hand-in-glove  with  the  Ministers,  and  has  been  invited  to 
Compiegne  by  the  Emperor.  You  will  find  him  very  useful." 

Alain  made  a  slight  movement  of  incredulous  dissent,  and 
changed  the  con  versation  to  reminiscences  of  old  schoolboy  days. 

The  dinner  at  length  came  to  a  close.  Frederic  rang  for  the 
bill,  glanced  over  it.  "  Fifty-nine  francs,"  said  he,  carelessly 
flinging  down  his  napoleon  and  a  half.  The  Marquis  silently 
drew  forth  his  purse  and  extracted  the  same  sum. 

When  they  were  out  of  the  restaurant,  Frederic  proposed  ad- 
journing to  his  own  rooms.  "  I  can  promise  you  an  excellent 
cigar,  one  of  a  box  given  to  me  by  an  invaluable  young  Span- 
iard attached  to  the  Embassy  here.  Such  cigars  are  not  to  be 
had  at  Paris  for  money,  nor  even  for  love,  seeing  that  women, 
however  devoted  and  generous,  never  offer  you  anything  better 
than  a  cigarette.  Such  cigars  are  only  to  be  had  for  friendship. 
Friendship  is  a  jewel." 

"  I  never  smoke,"  answered  the  Marquis,  "  but  I  shall  be 
charmed  to  come  to  your  rooms ;  only  don't  let  me  encroach 
on  your  good-nature.  Doubtless  you  have  engagements  for  the 
evening." 

"  None  till  eleven  o'clock,  when  I  have  promised  to  go  to  a 
soiree  to  which  I  do  not  offer  to  take  you  ;  for  it  is  one  of  those 
Bohemian  entertainments  at  which  it  would  do  you  harm  in  the 


THE    PARISIANS.  1$ 

Faubourg  to  assist — at  least  until  you  have  made  good  your  posi- 
tion. Let  me  see,  is  not  the  Duchesse  de  Tarascon  a  relation 
of  yours  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  my  poor  mother's  first  cousin." 

"  I  congratulate  you.  Ties  grande  dame.  She  will  launch 
you  in  pura  c&fa,  as  Juno  might  have  launched  one  of  her  young 
peacocks." 

"  There  has  been  no  acquaintance  between  our  houses,"  re- 
turned the  Marquis  drily,  ''since  the  me'salliance of  her  second 
nuptials." 

"  Mesalliance  !  Second  nuptials  !  Her  second  husband  was 
the  Due  de  Tarascon." 

"  A  duke  of  the  First  Empire — the  grandson  of  a  butcher." 

"Diable  !  you  are  a  severe  genealogist,  Monsieur  le  Marquis. 
How  can  you  consent  to  walk  arm-in-arm  with  me,  whose 
great-grandfather  supplied  bread  to  the  same  army  to  which 
the  Due  de  Tarascon's  grandfather  furnished  the  meat?" 

"  My  dear  Frederic,  we  two  have  an  equal  pedigree,  for  our 
friendship  dates  from  the  same  hour.  I  do  not  blame  the 
Duchesse  de  Tarascon  for  marrying  the  grandson  of  a  butcher, 
but  for  marrying  the  son  of  a  man  made  duke  by  an  usurper. 
She  abandoned  the  faith  of  her  house  and  the  cause  of  her 
sovereign.  Therefore  her  marriage  is  a  blot  on  our  scutcheon." 

Frederic  raised  his  eyebrows,  but  had  the  tact  to  pursue  the 
subject  no  further.  He  who  interferes  in  the  quarrels  of  rela- 
tions must  pass  through  life  without  a  friend. 

The  young  men  now  arrived  at  Lemercier's  apartment,  an 
entresol  looking  on  the  Boulevard  des  Italiens,  consisting  of 
more  rooms  that  a  bachelor  generally  requires  ;  low-pitched, 
indeed,  but  of  good  dimensions,  and  decorated  and  furnished 
with  a  luxury  which  really  astonished  the  provincial,  though, 
with  the  high-bred  pride  of  an  Oriental,  he  suppressed  every 
sign  of  surprise. 

Florentine  cabinets  freshly  retouched  by  the  exquisite  skill 
of  Mombro,  costly  specimens  of  old  Sevres  and  Limoges  ; 
pictures  and  bronzes  and  marble  statuettes,  all  well  chosen 
and  of  great  price,  reflected  from  mirrors  in  Venetian  frames, 
made  a  coup  d'cdl  very  favorable  to  that  respect  which  the 
human  mind  pays  to  the  evidences  of  money.  Nor  was  com- 
fort less  studied  than  splendor.  Thick  carpets  covered  the 
floors,  doubled  and  quilted  portieres  excluded  all  draughts 
from  chinks  in  the  doors.  Having  allowed  his  friend  a  few 
minutes  to  contemplate  and  admire  the  sAlk-b-mangtr ttv&  salon 
which  constituted  his  more  state  apartments,  Frederic  then 


14      ;  THE    PARISIANS. 

Conducted  him  into  a  small  cabinet,  fitted  up  with  scarlet  cloth 
and  gold  fringes,  whereon  were  artistically  arranged  trophies 
of  Eastern  weapons  and  Turkish  pipes  with  amber  mouth- 
pieces. 

There,  placing  the  Marquis  at  ease  on  a  divan,  and  flinging 
himself  on  another,  the  Parisian  exquisite  ordered  a  valet,  well 
dressed  as  himself,  to  bring  coffee  and  liqueurs  ;  and  after 
vainly  pressing  one  of  his  matchless  cigars  on  his  friend,  in- 
dulged in  his  own  regalia. 

"  They  are  ten  years  old,"  said  Frederic,  with  a  tone  of 
compassion  at  Alain's  self-inflicted  loss;  "ten  years  old. 
Born  therefore  about  the  year  in  which  we  two  parted — " 

"  When  you  were  so  hastily  summoned  from  college,"  said 
the  Marquis,  "by  the  news  of  your  father's  illness.  We  ex- 
pected you  back  in  vain.  Have  you  been  at  Paris  evei 
since?  " 

"Ever  since.  My  poor  father  died  of  that  illness. "Hi? 
fortune  proved  much  larger  than  was  suspected  ;  my  share 
anfounted  to  an  income  from  investments  in  stocks,  houses; 
etc.,  to  upwards  of  60,000  francs  a  year  ;  and-  as  I  wanted  six 
years  to  my  majority,  of  course  the  capital  on  attaining  my 
majority  would  be  increased  by  accumulation.  My  mother 
desired  to  keep  me  near  her  ;  my  uncle,  who  was  joint 
guardian  with  her,  looked  with  disdain  on  our  poor  little  pro- 
vincial cottage  ;  so  promising  an  heir  should  acquire  his  finish- 
ing education  under  masters  at  Paris.  Long  before  I  was  of 
age,  I  was  initiated  into  politer  mysteries  of  our  capital  than 
those  celebrated  by  Eugene  Sue.  When  I  took  possession  of 
my  fortune  five  years  ago,  I  was  considered  a  Crcesus  ;  and 
really  for  that  partriarchal  time  I  was  wealthy.  Now,  alas,  my 
accumulations  have  vanished  in  my  outfit ;  and  60,000  francs 
a  year  is  the  least  a  Parisian  can  live  upon.  It  is  not  only 
that  all  prices  have  fabulously  increased,  but  that  the  dearer 
things  become  the  better  people  live.  When  I  first  jcame  out, 
the  world  speculated  upon  me  ;  now,  in  order  to  keep  my 
standing,  I  am  forced  to  speculate  on  the  world.  Hitherto  I 
have  not  lost,  Duplessis  let  me  into  a  few  good  things  this 
year,  worth  100,000  francs  or  so.  Crcesus  consulted  the  Del- 
phic Oracle.  Duplessis  was  not  alive  in  the  time  of  Crcesus, 
or  Crcesus  \vould  have  consulted  Duplessis." 

Here  there  was  a  ring  at  the  outer  door  of  the  apartment, 
and  in  another  minute  the  valet  ushered  in  a  gentleman  some- 
where about,  the  age  of  thirty,  of  prepossessing  countenance, 
and  with  the  indefinable  air  of  good-breeding  and  usage  du 


THE    PARISIANS.  t5 

monde.  Frederic  started  up  to  greet  cordially  the  new-comer, 
and  introduced  him  to  the  Marquis  under  the  name  of  "  Sare 
Grarm  Yarn." 

"  Decidedly,"  said  the  visitor,  as  he  took  off  his  paletot  and 
seated  himself  beside  the  Marquis  ;  "  Decidedly,  my  dear 
Lemercier,"  said  he,  in  very  correct  French,  and  with  the  true 
Parisian  accent  and  intonation,  "  you  Frenchman  merit  that 
praise  for  polished  ignorance  of  the  language  of  barbarians 
which  a  distinguished  historian  bestows  on  the  ancient 
Romans.  Permit  me,  Marquis,  to  submit  to  you  the  considera- 
tion whether  Grarm  Yarn  is  a  fair  rendering  of  my  name  as 
truthfully  printed  on  this  card." 

The  inscription  on  the  card,  thus  drawn  from  its  case  and 
placed  in  Alain's  hand,  was  : 

MR.  GRAHAM  VANE, 
No.  —  Rue  d'Anjou. 

The  Marquis  gazed  at  it  as  he  might  on  a  hieroglyphic,  and 
passed  it  on  to  Lemercier  in  discreet  silence. 

That  gentleman  made  another  attempt  at  the  barbarian 
appellation. 

"  'Grar — ham  Varne.'  Cest  (a!  I  triumph  !  all  difficulties 
yield  to  French  energy." 

Here  the  coffee  and  liqueurs  were  served  ;  and  after  a  short 
pause  the  Englishman,  who  had  very  quietly  been  observing 
the  silent  Marquis,  turned  to  him  and  said  :  "  Monsieur  le 
Marquis,  I  presume  it  was  your  father  whom  I  remember  as  an 
acquaintance  of  my  own  father  at  Ems.  It  is  many  years  ago  ; 
I  was  but  a  child.  The  Count  de  Chambord  was  then  at  that 
enervating  little  spa  for  the  benefit  of  the  Countess's  health. 
If  our  friend  Lemercier  does  not  mangle  your  name  as  he 
does  mine,  I  understand  him  to  say  that  you  are  the  Marquis 
de  Rochebriant." 

"  That  is  my  name  ;  it  pleases  me  to  hear  that  my  father 
was  among  those  who  flocked  to  Ems  to  do  homage  to  the 
royal  personage  who  deigns  to  assume  the  title  of  Count  cle 
Chambord." 

"  My  own  ancestors  clung  to  the  descendants  of  James  II. 
till  their  claims  were  buried  in  the  grave  of  the  last  Stuart  • 
and  I  honor  the  gallant  men  who,  like  your  father,  revere  in  an 
exile  the  heir  to  their  ancient  kings." 

The  Englishman  said  this  with  grace  and  feeling  ;  the 
Marquis's  heart  warmed  to  him  at  once. 


l6  THE    PARISIANS. 

"The  first  loyal  gcntilhomme  I  have  met  at  Paris,"  thought 
the  Legitimist ;  "  and,  oh,  shame  !  not  a  Frenchman  !  " 

Graham  Vane,  now  stretching  himself  and  accepting  the 
cigar  which  Lemercier  offered  him,  said  to  that  gentleman  : 
"You  who  know  your  Paris  by  heart — everybody  and  every- 
thing therein  worth  the  knowing,  with  many  bodies  and  many 
things  that  are  not  worth  it — can  you  inform  me  who  and  what 
is  a  certain  lady  who  every  fine  day  may  be  seen  walking  in  a 
quiet  spot  at  the  outskirts  of  the  Bois  de  Boulogne,  not  far 
from  the  Baron  de  Rothschild's  villa  ?  The  said  lady  arrives  at 
this  selected  spot  in  a  dark  blue  coupe  without  armorial  bear- 
ings punctually  at  the  hour  of  three.  She  wears  always  the 
same  dress,  a  kind  of  gray  pearl-colored  silk,  with  a  cachemire 
shawl.  In  age  she  may  be  somewhat  about  twenty — a  year  or 
so  more  or  less — and  has  a  face  as  haunting  as  a  Medusa's  ; 
not,  however,  a  face  to  turn  a  man  into  a  stone,  but  rather  of 
the  two  turn  a  stone  into  a  man.  A  clear  paleness,  with  a 
bloom  like  an  alabaster  lamp  with  the  light  flashing  through. 
I  borrow  that  illustration  from  Sare  Scott,  who  applied  it  to 
Milor  Bee-ron." 

"I  have  not  seen  the  lady  you  describe,"  answered  Lemer- 
cier, feeling  humiliated  by  the  avowal  ;  "  in  fact,  I  have  not 
been  in  that  sequestered  part  of  the  Bois  for  months ;  but  I 
will  go  to-morrow:  three  o'clock  you  say — leave  it  to  me;  to- 
morrow evening,  if  she  is  a  Parisienne,  you  shall  know  all  about 
her.  But,  mon  cher,  you  are  not  of  a  jealous  temperament  to 
confide  your  discovery  to  another." 

"  Yes,  I  am  of  a  very  jealous  temperament,"  replied  the 
Englishman  ;  "  but  jealousy  comes  after  love,  and  not  before 
it.  1  am  not  in  love  ;  lam  only  haunted.  To-morrow  even- 
ing, then,  shall  we  dine  here  at  Philippe's,  seven  o'clock  ?" 

"With  all  my  heart,"  said  Lemercier  ;  "  and  you,  too,  Alain." 

"  Thank  you,  no,"  said  the  Marquis  briefly ;  and  he  rose, 
drew  on  his  gloves,  and  took  up  his  hat. 

At  these  signals  of  departure  the  Englishman,  who  did  not 
want  tact  nor  delicacy,  thought  that  he  had  made  himself  de 
trepm  the  t£te-a-tete  of  two  friends  of  the  same  age  and  nation  ; 
and,  catching  up  his  paletot,  said  hastily :  "  No,  Marquis,  do 
not  go  yet,  and  leave  our  host  in  solitude  ;  for  I  have  an  engage- 
ment which  presses,  and  only  looked  in  at  Lemercier's  for  a 
moment,  seeing  the  light  at  his  windows.  Permit  me  to  hope 
that  our  acquaintance  will  not  drop,  and  inform  me  where  I 
may  have  the  honor  to  call  on  you." 

"  Nay,"  said  the  Marquis  ;  "  I  claim  the  right  of  a  native  to 


THE    PARISIANS.  17 

pay  my  respects  first  to  the  foreigner  who  visits  our  capital, 
and,"  he  added  in  a  lower  tone,  "  who  speaks  so  nobly  of  those 
who  revere  its  exiles." 

The  Englishman  saluted,  and  walked  slowly  towards  the 
door  ;  but  on  reaching  the  threshold  turned  back  and  made  a 
sign  to  Lemercier,  unperceived  by  Alain. 

Frederic  understood  the  sign,  and  followed  Graham  Vane 
into  the  adjoining  room,  closing  the  door  as  he  passed. 

"My  dear  Lemercier,  of  course  I  should  not  have  intruded 
on  you  at  this  hour  on  a  mere  visit  of  ceremony.  J  called  to 
say  that  the  Mademoiselle  Duval  whose  address  you  sent  me 
is  not  the  right  one — not  the  lady  whom,  knowing  your  wide 
range  of  acquaintance,  I  asked  you  to  aid  me  in  finding 
out." 

"  Not  the  right  Duval  ?  Diable!  she  answered  your  descrip- 
tion exactly." 

"  Not  at  all." 

"  You  said  she  was  very  pretty  and  young — under  twenty." 

"  You  forgot  that  I  said  she  deserved  that  description  twenty- 
one  years  ago." 

"  Ah,  so  you  did  ;  but  some  ladies  are  always  young.  'Age,' 
says  a  wit  in  the  Figaro,  '  is  a  river  which  the  women  compel 
to  reascend  to  its  source  when  it  has  flowed  onward  more  than 
twenty  years.'  Never  mind — soyez  tranquille — I  will  find  your 
Duval  yet  if  she  is  to  be  found.  But  why  could  not  the  friend 
who  commissioned  you  to  inquire  choose  a  nameless  common  ? 
Duval  !  every  street  in  Paris  has  a  shop-door  over  which  is 
inscribed  the  name  of  Duval." 

"  Quite  true,  there  is  the  difficulty  ;  however,  my  dear  Lemer- 
cier, pray  continue  to  look  out  for  a  Louise  Duval  who  was 
young  and  pretty  twenty-one  years  ago  ;  this  search  ought  to 
interest  me  more  than  that  which  I  intrusted  to  you  to-night, 
respecting  the  pearly-robed  lady  :  for  in  the  last  I  but  gratify 
my  own  whim  ;  in  the  first  I  discharge  a  promise  to  a  friend. 
You,  so  perfect  a  Frenchman,  know  the  difference  ;  honor  is 
engaged  to  the  first.  Be  sure  you  let  me  know  if  you  find  any 
other  Madame  or  Mademoiselle  Duval  ;  and  of  course  you 
remember  your  promise  not  to  mention  to  any  one  the  com- 
mission of  inquiry  you  so  kindly  undertake.  I  congratulate 
you  on  your  friendship  for  M.  de  Rochebriant.  What  a  noble 
countenance  and  manner  !  " 

Lemercier  returned  to  the  Marquis.  "Such  a  pity  you  can't 
dine  with  us  to-morrow.  I  fear  you  made  but  a  poor  dinner 
to-day.  But  it  is  always  better  to  arrange  the  menu  before- 


l8  THE    PARISIANS 

hand.  I  will  send  to  Philippe's  to-morrow.  Do  not  be 
afraid." 

The  Marquis  paused  a  moment,  and  on  his  young  face  a 
proud  struggle  was  visible.  At  last  he  said,  bluntly  and  man- 
fully : 

"  My  dear  Frederic,  your  world  and  mine  are  not  and  cannot 
be  the  same.  Why  should  I  be  ashamed  to  own  to  my  old 
schoolfellow  that  1  am  poor — very  poor  ;  that  the  dinner  I  have 
shared  with  you  to-day  is  to  me  a  criminal  extravagance?  I 
lodge  in  a  single  chamber  on  the  fourth  story ;  I  dine  off  a 
single  plat  at  a  small  restaurateur  s ;  the  utmost  income  I  can 
allow  to  myself  does  not  exceed  5000  francs  a  year  :  my  for- 
tunes I  cannot  hope  much  to  improve.  In  his  own  country 
Alain  de  Rochebriant  has  no  career." 

Lamercier  was  so  astonished  by  this  confession  that  he 
remained  for  some  moments  silent,  eyes  and  mouth  both  wide 
open  ;  at  length  he  sprang  up,  embraced  his  friend  well-nigh 
sobbing,  and  exclaimed  :  Taut  mieux  pour  moi !  You  must 
take  your  lodging  with  me.  I  have  a  charming  bedroom  to 
spare.  Don't  say  no.  It  will  raise  my  o^n  position  to  say  '  I 
and  Rochebriant  keep  house  together.'  It  must  be  so.  Come 
here  to-morrow.  As  for  not  having  a  career,  bah  !  I  and 
Duplessis  will  settle  that.  You  shall  be  a  millionnaire  in  t\vo 
years.  Meanwhile  we  will  join  capitals :  I  my  paltry  notes, 
you  your  grand  name.  Settled  !  " 

"My  dear,  dear  Frederic,"  said  the  young  noble,  deeply 
affected,  "on  reflection  you  will  see  what  you  propose  is  impos- 
sible. Poor  I  may  be  without  dishonor  ;  live  at  another  man's 
cost  I  cannot  do  without  baseness.  It  does  not  require  to  be 
gentilhomme  to  feel  that :  it  is  enough  to  be  a  Frenchman. 
Come  and  see  me  when  you  can  spare  the  time.  There  is  my 
address.  You  are  the  only  man  in  Paris  to  whom  I  shall  be  at 
home.  Au  revoir."  And  breaking  away  from  Lemercier's 
clasp,  the  Marquis  hurried  off. 


CHAPTER   III. 

ALAIN  reached  the  house  in  which  he  lodged.  Externally  a 
fine  house,  it  had  been  the  hotel  of  a  great'  family  in  the  old 
regime.  On  the  first  floor  were  still  superb  apartments,  with 
ceilings  painted  by  Le  Brun,  with  walls  on  which  the  thick 
silks  still  seemed  fresh.  These  rooms  were  occupied  by  a  rich 
agent  de  change ;  but,  like  all  such  ancient  palaces,  the  upper 


THE    PARISIANS.  10 

stories  were  wretchedly  defective  even  in  the  comforts  which 
poor  men  demand  nowadays  :  a  back  staircase,  narrow,  dirty, 
never  lighted,  dark  as  Erebus,  led  to  the  room  occupied  by  the 
Marquis,  which  might  be  naturally  occupied  by  a  needy  student 
or  a  virtuous  grisette.  But  there  was  to  him  a  charm  in  that 
old  hotel,  and  the  richest  locataire  therein  was  not  treated  with 
a  respect  so  ceremonious  as  that  which  attended  the  lodger  on 
the  fourth  story.  The  porter  and  his  wife  were  Bretons  ;  they 
came  from  the  village  of  Rochebriant ;  they  had  known  Alain's 
parents  in  their  young  days  ;  it  was  their  kinsman  who  had 
recommended  him  to  the  hotel  which  they  served  :  so,  when  he 
paused  at  the  lodge  for  his  key,  which  he  had  left  there,  the 
porter's  wife  was  in  waiting  for  his  return,  and  insisted  on 
lighting  him  upstairs  and  seeing  to  his  fire,  for,  after  a  warm 
day,  the  night  had  turned  to  that  sharp,  biting  cold  which  is 
more  trying  in  Paris  than  even  in  London. 

The  old  woman,  running  up  the  stairs  before  him,  opened 
the  door  of  his  room,  and  busied  herself  at  the  fire.  "Gently, 
my  good  Marthe,"  said  he,  "  that  log  suffices.  I  have  been 
extravagant  to-day,  and  must  pinch  for  it." 

"  M.  le  Marquis  jests,"  said  the  old  woman,  laughing. 

"  No,  Marthe  ;  I  am  serious.  I  have  sinned,  but  I  shall  re- 
form; Entre  nous,  my  dear  friend,  Paris  is  very  dear  when  one 
sets  one's  foot  out  of  doors.  I  must  soon  go  back  to  Roche- 
briant." 

"  When  M.  le  Marquis  goes  back  to  Rochebriant  he  must 
take  with  him  a  Madame  la  Marquise — some  pretty  angel  with 
a  suitable  dot." 

"A  dot  suitable  to  the  ruins  of  Rochebriant  would  not  suffice 
to  repair  them,  Marthe  :  give  me  my  dressing-gown,  and  good- 
night." 

''''Bon  repos,  M.  le  Marquis!  beaux  rfoes,  et  bel  arenir." 

Belmenir!"  murmured  the  young  man  bitterly,  leaning 
his  cheek  on  his  hand.  "  What  fortune  fairer  than  the  present 
can  be  mine  ?  Yet  inaction  in  youth  is  more  keenly  felt  than 
in  age.  How  lightly  I  should  endure  poverty  if  it  brought 
poverty's  ennobling  companion,  Labor — denied  to  me  !  Well, 
well  ;  I  must  go  back  to  the  old  rock  ;  on  this  ocean  there  is 
no  sail,  not  even  an  oar,  for  me." 

Alain  de  Rochebriant  had  not  been  reared  to  the  expectation 
of  poverty.  The  only  son  of  a  father  whose  estates  were  large 
beyond  those  of  most  nobles  in  modern  France,  his  destined 
heritage  seemed  not  unsuitable  to  his  illustrious  birth.  Educated 
at  a  provincial  academy,  he  had  been  removed  at  the  age  of 


2O  THE    PARISIANS. 

sixteen  to  Rochebriant,  and  lived  there  simply  and  lonely 
enough,  but  still  in  a  sort  of  feudal  state,  with  an  aunt,  an  eld- 
er and  unmarried  sister  to  his  father. 

His  father  he  never  saw  but  twice  after  leaving  college. 
That  brilliant  seigneur  visited  France  but  rarely,  for  very  brief 
intervals,  residing  wholly  abroad.  To  him  went  all  the  reve- 
nues of  Rochebriant  save  what  sufficed  for  the  manage  of  his  son 
and  his  sister.  It  was  the  cherished  belief  of  these  two  loyal 
natures  that  the  Marquis  secretly  devoted  his  fortune  to  the 
cause  of  the  Bourbons  ;  how,  they  knew  not,  though  they  often 
amused  themselves  by  conjecturing  ;  and  the  young  man,  as 
he  grew  up,  nursed  the  hope  that  he  should  soon  hear  that  the 
descendant  of  Henri  Quatre  had  crossed  the  frontier  on  a 
white  charger  and  hoisted  the  old  gonfalon  with  its  fleur-de  Us. 
Then,  indeed,  his  own  career  would  be  opened,  and  the  sword 
of  the  Kerouecs  drawn  from  its  sheath.  Day  after  day  he  ex- 
pected to  hear  of  revolts,  of  which  his. noble  father  was  doubt- 
less the  soul.  But  the  Marquis,  though  a  sincere  Legitimist, 
was  by  no  means  an  enthusiastic  fanatic.  He  was  simply  a 
very  proud,  a  very  polished,  a  very  luxurious,  and,  though  not 
without  the  kindliness  and  generosity  which  were  common  at- 
tributes of  the  old  French  noblesse,  a  very  selfish  grand  seign- 
eur. 

Losing  his  wife  (who  died  the  first  year  of  marriage  in  giv- 
ing birth  to  Alain)  while  he  was  yet  very  young,  he  had  lived 
a  frank  libertine  life  until  he  fell  submissive  under  the  despotic 
yoke  of  aRussian  princess,  who,  for  some  mysterious  reason, never 
visited  her  own  country,  and  obstinately  refused  to  reside  in 
France.  She  was  fond  of  travel,  and  moved  yearly  from  London 
to  Naples,  Naples  to  Vienna,  Berlin,  Madrid,  Seville,  Carlsbad, 
Baden-Baden — anywhere  for  caprice  or  change,  except  Paris. 
This  fair  wanderer  succeeded  in  chaining  to  herself  the  heart 
and  the  steps  of  the  Marquis  de  Rochebriant. 

She  was  very  rich  ;  she  lived  semi-royally.  Hers  was  just 
the  house  in  which  it  suited  the  Marquis  to  be  the  enfant  gate'. 
I  suspect  that,  cat-like,  his  attachment  was  rather  to  the  house 
than  to  the  person  of  his  mistress.  Not  that  he  was  domiciled 
with  the  Princess  ;  that  would  have  been  somewhat  too  much 
against  the  proprieties,  greatly  too  much  against  the  Marquis's 
notions  of  his  own  dignity,  He  hid  his  own  carriage,  his  own 
apartments,  his  own  suite,  as  became  so  grand  a  seigneur,  and 
the  lover  of  so  grand  a  dame.  His  estates,  mortgaged  before 
he  came  to  them,  yielded  no  income  sufficient  for  his  wants  ; 
he  mortgaged  deeper  and  deeper,  year  after  year,  till  he  could 


THE    PARISIANS.  21 

mortgage  them  no  more.  He  sold  his  hotel  at  Paris  ;  he  ac- 
cepted without  scruple  his  sister's  fortune  ;  he  borrowed  with 
equal  sang-froid  the  two  hundred  thousand  francs  which  his  son 
on  coming  of  age  inherited  from  his  mother.  Alain  yielded 
that  fortune  to  him  without  a  murmur  ;  nay,  with  pride  ;  he 
thought  it  destined  to  go  towards  raising  a  regiment  for  the 
fleur-de-lis. 

To  do  the  Marquis  justice,  he  was  fully  persuaded  that  he 
should  shortly  restore  to  his  sister  and  son  what  he  so  recklessly 
took  from  them.  He  was  engaged  to  be  married  to  his  Princess 
so  soon  as  her  own  husband  died.  She  had  been  separated  from 
the  Prince  for  many  years,  and  every  year  it  was  said  he  could 
not  last  a  year  longer.  But  he  completed  the  measure  of  his 
conjugal  iniquities  by  continuing  to  live  ;  and  one  day,  by 
mistake,  Death  robbed  the  lady  of  the  Marquis  instead  of  the 
Prince. 

This  was  an  accident  which  the  Marquis  had  never  counted 
upon.  He  was  still  young  enough  to  consider  himself  young  ; 
in  fact,  one  principal  reason  for  keeping  Alain  secluded  in 
Bretagne  was  his  reluctance  to  introduce  into  the  world  a  son 
"as  old  as  myself,"  he  would  say  pathetically.  The  news  of 
his  death,  which  happened  at  Baden  after  a  short  attack  of 
bronchitis  caught  in  a  supper  al  fresco  at  the  old  castle,  was 
duly  transmitted  to  Rochebriant  by  the  Princess  ;  and  the 
shock  to  Alain  and  his  aunt  was  the  greater  because  they  had 
seen  so  little  of  the  departed  that  they  regarded  him  as  a  heroic 
myth,  an  impersonation  of  ancient  chivalry,  condemning  him- 
self to  voluntary  exile,  rather  than  do  homage  to  usurpers. 
But  from  their  grief  they  were  soon  roused  by  the  terrible 
doubt  whether  Rochebriant  could  still  be  retained  in  the 
family.  Besides  the  mortgagees,  creditors  from  half  the  capitals 
in  Europe  sent  in  their  claims  ;  and  all  the  movable  effects 
transmitted  to  Alain  by  his  father's  confidential  valet,  except 
sundry  carriages  and  horses  which  were  sold  at  Baden  for  what 
they  would  fetch,  were  a  magnificent  dressing-case,  in  the 
secret  drawer  of  which  were  some  bank-notes  amounting  to 
thirty  thousand  francs,  and  three  large  boxes  containing  the 
Marquis's  correspondence,  a  few  miniature  female  portraits, 
and  a  great  many  locks  of  hair. 

Wholly  unprepared  for  the  ruin  that  stared  nim  in  the  face, 
the  young  Marquis  evinced  the  natural  strength  of  his  charac- 
ter by  the  calmness  with  which  he  met  the  danger,  and  the  in- 
telligence with  which  he  calculated  and  reduced  it. 

By  the  help  of  the  family  notary  in  the  neighboring  town,  he 


22  THE    PARISIANS. 

made  himself  master  of  his  liabilities  and  his  means  ;  and,  he 
found  that,  after  paying  all  debts  and  providing  for  the  interest 
of  the  mortgages,  a  property  which  ought  to  have  realized  a 
rental  of  ^10,000  a  year  yielded  not  more  than  ^400.  Nor 
was  even  this  margin  safe,  nor  the  property  out  of  peril  ;  for 
the  principal  mortgagee,  who  was  a  capitalist  in  Paris  named 
Louvier,  having  had  during  the  life  of  the  late  Marquis  more 
than  once  to  wait  for  his  half-yearly  interest  longer  than  suited 
his  patience — and  his  patience  was  not  enduring — plainly  de- 
clared that  if  the  same  delay  recurred  he  should  put  his  right 
of  seizure  in  force  ;  and  in  France  still  more  than  in  England 
bad  seasons  seriously  affect  the  security  of  rents.  To  pay  away 
^9,600  a  year  regularly  out  of  ^10,000,  with  the  penalty  of 
forfeiting  the  whole  if  not  paid,  whether  crops  may  fail,  farmers 
procrastinate,  and  timber  fall  in  price,  is  to  live  with  the  sword 
of  Damocles  over  one's  head. 

For  two  years  and  more,  however,  Alain  met  his  difficulties 
with  prudence  and  vigor;  he  retrenched  the  establishment 
hitherto  kept  at  the  chateau,  resigned  such  rural  pleasures  as 
he  had  been  accustomed  to  indulge,  and  lived  like  one  of  his 
petty  farmers.  But  the  risks  of  the  future  remained  undi- 
minished. 

"There  is  but  one  way,  Monsieur  le  Marquis,"  said  the 
family  notary,  M.  Hebert,  "  by  which  you  can  put  your  estate 
in  comparative  safety.  Your  father  raised  his  mortgages  from 
time  to  time,  as  he  wanted  money,  and  often  at  interest  above 
the  average  market  interest.  You  may  add  considerably  to 
your  income  by  consolidating  all  these  mortgages  into  one  at  a 
lower  percentage,  and  in  so  doing  pay  off  this  formidable  mort- 
gagee, M.  Louvier,  who,  I  shrewdly  suspect,  is  bent  upon  be- 
coming the  proprietor  of  Rochebriant.  Unfortunately,  those 
few  portions  of  your  land  which  were  but  lightly  charged,  and, 
lying  contiguous  to  small  proprietors,  were  coveted  by  them, 
and  could  be  advantageously  sold,  are  already  gone  to  pay  the 
debts  of  Monsieur  the  late  Marquis.  There  are,  however,  two 

small  farms  which,  bordering  close  on  the  town  of  S ,  I 

think  I  could  dispose  of  for  building  purposes  at  high  rate's  ; 
but  these  lands  are  covered  by  Monsieur  Louvier's  general 
mortgage,  and  he  has  refused  to  release  them  unless  the  whole 
debt  be  paid.  'Were  that  debt  therefore  transferred  to  another 
mortgagee,  we  might  stipulate  for  their  exception,  and  in  so 
doing  secure  a  sum  of  more  than  100,000  francs,  which  you 
could  keep  in  reserve  fora  pressing  or  unforeseen  occasion,  and 
make  the  nucleus  of  a  capital  devoted  tc  the  gradual  liquida- 


THE    PARISIANS.  23 

tion  of  the  charges  on  the  estate.  For  with  a  little  capital, 
Monsieur  le  Marquis,  your  rent-roll  might  be  very  greatly  in- 
creased, the  forests  and  orchards  improved,  those  meadows 

round  S drained  and  irrigated.     Agriculture  is  beginning 

to  be  understood  in  Bretagne,  and  your  estate  would  soon 
double  its  value  in  the  hands  of  a  spirited  capitalist.  My  ad- 
vice to  you,  therefore,  is  to  go  to  Paris,  employ  a  good  avou/, 
practised  in  such  branch  of  his  profession,  to-  negotiate  the 
consolidation  of  your  mortgages  upon  terms  that  will  enable 
you  to  sell  outlying  portions,  and  so  pay  off  the  charge  by  in- 
stalments agreed  upon  ;  to  see  if  some  safe  company  or  rich 
individual  can  be  found  to  undertake  for  a  term  of  years  the 

management  of  your  forests,  the  draining  of  the  S meadows, 

the  superintendence  of  your  fisheries,  etc.  They,  it  is  true, 
will  monopolize  the  profits  for  many  years — perhaps  twenty  ; 
but  you  are  a  young  man  ;  at  the  end  of  that  time  you  will 
re-enter  on  your  estate  with  a  rental  so  improved  that  the 
mortgages,  now  so  awful,  will  seem  to  you  comparatively 
trivial." 

In  pursuance  of  this  advice,  the  young  Marquis  had  come  to 
Paris  fortified  with  a  letter  from  M.  Hubert  to  an  avout  Q{  emi- 
nence, and  with  many  letters  from  his  aunt  to  the  nobles  of 
the  Faubourg  connected  with  his  house.  Now  one  reason  why 
M.  Hebert  had  urged  his  client  to  undertake  this  important 
business  in  person,  rather  than  volunteer  his  own  services  in 
Paris,  was  somewhat  extra-professional.  He  had  a  sincere 
and  profound  affection  for  Alain  ;  he  felt  compassion  for  that 
young  life  so  barrenly  wasted  in  seclusion  and  severe  priva- 
tions ;  he  respected,  but  was  too  practical  a  man  of  business 
to  share,  those  chivalrous  sentiments  of  loyalty  to  an  exiled 
dynasty  which  disqualified  the  man  for  the  age  he  lived  in, 
and,  if  not  greatly  modified,  would  cut  him  off  from  the  hopes 
and  aspirations  of  his  eager  generation.  He  thought  plausibly 
enough  that  the  air  of  the  grand  metropolis  was  necessary  to 
the  mental  health,  enfeebled  and  withering  amidst  the  feudal 
mists  of  Bretagne  ;  that  once  in  Paris,  Alain  would  imbibe  the 
ideas  of  Paris,  adapt  himself  to  some  career  leading  to  honor 
and  to  fortune,  for  which  he  took  facilities  from  his  high  birth, 
an  historical  name  too  national  for  any  dynasty  not  to  welcome 
among  its  adherents,  and  an  intellect  not  yet  sharpened  by 
contact  and  competition  with  others,  but  in  itself  vigorous, 
habituated  to  thought,  and  vivified  by  the  noble  aspirations 
which  belong  to  imaginative  natures. 

At  the  least,  Alain  would  be  at  Paris  in  the  social  position 


24  THE    PARISIANS. 

which  would  afford'  him  the  opportunities  of  a  marriage,  in 
which  his  birth  and  rank  would  be  readily  accepted  as  an 
equivalent  to  some  ample  fortune  that  would  serve  to  redeem 
the  endangered  seigneuries.  He  therefore  warned  Alain  that 
the  affair  for  which  he  went  to  Paris  might  be  tedious,  that 
lawyers  were  always  slow,  and  advised  him  to  calculate  on 
remaining  several  months,  perhaps  a  year  ;  delicately  suggest- 
ing that  his  rearing  hitherto  had  been  too  secluded  for  his  age 
and  rank,  and  that  a  year  at  Paris,  even  if  he  failed  in  the  ob- 
ject which  took  him  there,  would  not  be  thrown  away  in  the 
knowledge  of  men  and  things  that  would  fit  him  better  to 
grapple  with  his  difficulties  on  his  return. 

Alain  divided  his  spare  income  between  his  aunt  and  him- 
self, and  had  come  to  Paris  resolutely  determined  to  live 
within  the  ^200  a  year  which  remained  to  his  share.  He  felt 
the  revolution  in  his  whole  being  that  commenced  when  out  of 
sight  of  the  petty  piincipality  in  which  he  was  the  object  of 
that  feudal  reverence  still  surviving,  in  the  more  unfrequented 
parts  of  Bretagne,  for  the  representatives  of  illustrious  names 
connected  with  the  immemorial  legends  of  the  province. 

The  very  bustle  of  a  railway,  with  its  crowd  and  quickness 
and  unceremonious  democracy  of  travel,  served  to  pain  and 
confound  and  humiliate  that  sense  of  individual  dignity  in 
which  he  had  been  nurtured.  He  felt  that,  once  away  from 
Rochebriant,  he  was  but  a  cipher  in  the  sum  of  human  beings. 
Arrived  at  Paris,  and  reaching  the  gloomy  hotel  to  which  he 
had  been  recommended,  he  greeted  even  the  desolation  of  that 
solitude  which  is  usually  so  oppressive  to  a  stranger  in  the 
metropolis  of  his  native  land.  Loneliness  was  better  than  the 
loss  of  self  in  the  reek  and  pressure  of  an  unfamiliar  throng. 
For  the  first  "few  days  he  had  wandered  over  Paris  without 
calling  even  on  the  avouJ  to  whom  M.  Hebert  had  directed 
him.  He  felt,  with  the  instinctive  acuteness  of  a  mind  which, 
under  sounder  training,  would  have  achieved  no  mean  distinc- 
tion, that  it  was  a  safe  precaution  to  imbue  himself  with  the 
atmosphere  of  the  place,  and  seize  on  those  general  ideas  which 
in  great  capitals  are  so  contagious  that  they  are  often  more  ac- 
curately caught  by  the  first  impressions  than  by  subsequent 
habit,  before  he  brought  his  mind  into  collision  with  those  of 
the  individuals  he  had  practically  to  deal  with. 

At  last  he  repaired  to  the  avout,  M.  Gandrin,  Rue  St.  Flor- 
entin.  He  had  mechanically  formed  his  idea  of  the  abode 
and  person  of  an  avoud  from  his  association  with  M.  Hebert. 
He  expected  to  find  a  dull  house  in  a  dull  street  near  the  centre 


THE   PARISIANS.  2$ 

of  business,  remote  from  the  haunts  of  idlers,  and  a  grave  man 
of  unpretending  exterior  and  matured  years. 

He  arrived  at  a  hotel  newly  fronted,  richly  decorated,  in  the 
fashionable  quartier  close  by  the  Tuileries.  He  entered  a  wide 
porte  cochere,  and  was  directed  by  the  concierge  to  mount  au 
premier.  There,  first  detained  in  an  office  faultlessly  neat, 
with  spruce  young  men  at  smart  desks,  he  was  at  length  ad. 
mitted  into  a  noble  salon,  and  into  the  presence  of  a  gentleman 
lounging  in  an  easy-chair  before  a  magnificent  bureau  of  mar- 
queterie,  genre  Louis  Seize,  engaged  in  patting  a  white  curly  lap* 
dog,  with  a  pointed  nose  and  a  shrill  bark. 

The  gentleman  rose  politely  on  his  entrance,  and  released  the 
dog,  who,  after  sniffing  the  Marquis,  condescended  not  to  bite. 

"  Monsieur  le  Marquis,"  said  M.  Gandrin,  glancing  at  the 
card  and  the  introductory  note  from  M.  Hebert,  which  Alain 
had  sent  in,  and  which  lay  on  the  secretaire  beside  heaps  of 
letters  nicely  arranged  and  labelled,  "charmed  to  make  the 
honor  of  your  acquaintance;  just  arrived  at  Paris?  So  M. 
Hebert — a  very  worthy  person  whom  I  have  never  seen,  but 
with  whom  I  have  had  correspondence — tells  me  you  wish  for 
my  advice  ;  in  fact,  he  wrote  to  me  some  days  ago,  mentioning 
the  business  in  question — consolidation  of  mortgages.  A  very 
large  sum  wanted,  Monsieur  le  Marquis,  and  not  to  be  had 
easily." 

"Nevertheless,"  said  Alain  quietly,  "I  should  imagine  that 
there  must  be  many  capitalists  in  Paris  willing  to  invest  in  good 
securities  at  fair  interest." 

"  You  are  mistaken,  Marquis;  very  few  such  capitalists.  Men 
worth  money  nowadays  like  quick  returns  and  large  profits, 
thanks  to  the  magnificent  system  of  Cre'dit  Mobilier,  in  which, 
as  you  are  aware,  a  man  may  place  his  money  in  any  trade  or 
speculation  without  liabilities  beyond  his  share.  Capitalists 
are  nearly  all  traders  or  speculators." 

"Then,"  said  the  Marquis,  half  rising,  "I  am  to  presume, 
sir,  that  you  are  not  likely  to  assist  me." 

"No,  I  don't  say  that,  Marquis.  I  will  look  with  care  into 
the  matter.  Doubtless  you  have  with  you  an  abstract  of  the 
necessary  documents,  the  conditions  of  the  present  mortgages, 
the  rental  of  the  estate,  its  probable  prospects,  and  so  forth." 

"Sir,  I  have  such  an  abstract  with  me  at  Paric  ;  and  having 
gone  into  it  myself  with  M.  Hebert,  I  can  pledge  you  my  word 
that  it  is  strictly  faithful  to  the.  facts." 

The  Marquis  said  this  with  nai've  simplicity,  as  if  his  word 
were  quite  sufficient^©  set  that  part  of  the  question  at  rest. 


26  THE    PARISIANS. 

M.  Gandrin  smiled  politely  and  said  :  "Eh  bien,  M.  le  Mar- 
quis :  favor  me  with  the  abstract ;  in  a  week's  time  you  shall 
have  my  opinion.  You  enjoy  Paris?  Greatly  improved  under 
the  Emperor.  Apropos,  Madame  Gandrin  receives  to-morrow 
evening  ;  allow  me  that  opportunity  to  present  you  to  her." 

Unprepared  for  the  proffered  hospitality,  the  Marquis  had 
no  option  but  to  murmur  his  gratification  and  assent. 

In  a  minute  more  he  was  in  the  streets.  The  next  evening  he 
went  to  Madame  Gandrin's  :  a  brilliant  reception — a  whole  mov- 
ing flower-bed  of  "decorations"  there.  Having  gone  through 
the  cereuiony  of  presentation  to  Madame  Gandrin — a  hand- 
some woman  dressed  to  perfection,  and  conversing  with  the 
secretary  to  an  embassy — the  young  noble  ensconced  himself 
in  an  obscure  and  quiet  corner,  observing  all,  and  imagining 
that  he  escaped  observation.  And  as  the  young  men  of  his 
own  years  glided  by  him,  or  as  their  talk  reached  his  ears,  he 
became  aware  that  from  top.  to  toe,  within  and  without,  he  was 
old-fashioned,  obsolete,  not  of  his  race,  not  of  his  day.  His 
rank  itself  seemed  to  him  a  waste-paper  title-deed  to  a  heritage 
long  lapsed.  Not  thus  the  princely  seigneurs  of  Rochebriam 
made  their  debut  at  the  capital  of  their  nation.  They  had  had 
the  entree  to  the  cabinets  of  their  kings  ;  they  had  glittered  in 
the  halls  of  Versailles  ;  they  had  held  high  posts  of  distinction 
in  court  and  camp  ;  the  great  Order  of  St.  Louis  had  seemed 
their  hereditary  appanage.  His  father,  though  a  voluntary 
exile  in  manhood,  had  been  in  childhood  a  king's  page,  and 
throughout  life  remained  the  associate  of  princes  ;  and  here, 
in  an  avoue"s  soiree,  unknown,  unregarded,  an  expectant  on 
an  avoues  patronage,  stood  the  last  lord  of  Rochebriant. 

It  is  easy  to  conceive  that  Alain  did  not  stay  long.  But  he 
stayed  long  enough  to  convince  him  that  on  ^200  a  year  the 
polite;  society  of  Paris,  even  as  seen  at  M.  Gandrin's,  was  not 
for  him.  Nevertheless,  a  day  or  two  after,  he  resolved  to  call 
upon  the  nearest  of  his  kinsmen  to  whom  his  aunt  had  given 
him  letters.  With  the  Count  de  Vandemar,  one  of  his  fellow- 
nobles  of  the  sacred  Faubourg,  he  should  be  no  less  Roche- 
briant, whether  in  a  garret  or  a  palace.  The  Vandemars,  in 
fact,  though  for  many  generations  before  the  First  Revolution 
a  puissant  and  brilliant  family,  had  always  recognized  the 
Rochebriants  as  the  head  of  their  house,  the  trunk  from 
which  they  had  been  slipped  in  the  fifteenth  century,  when 
a  younger  son  of  the  Rochebriants  married  a  wealthy  heiress 
and  took  the  title,  with  the  lands,  of  Vandemar. 

Since  then  the  two  families  had  often   intermarried.    "The 


THE    PARISIANS.  27 

present  count  had  a  reputation  for  ability,  was  himself  a  large 
proprietor,  and  might  furnish  advice  to  guide  Alain  in  his 
negotiations  with  M.  Gandrin.  The  Hotel  de  Vandemar 
stood  facing  the  old  Hotel  de  Rochebriant  ;  it  was  less  spa- 
cious, but  not  less  venerable,  gloomy,  and  prison-like. 

As  he  turned  his  eyes  from  the  armorial  scutcheon  which 
still  rested,  though  chipped 'and  mouldering,  over  the  portals 
of  his  lost  ancestral  house,  and  was  about  to  cross  the  streec, 
two  young  men,  who  seemed  two  or  three  years  older  than 
himself,  emerged  on  horseback  from  the  Hotel  de  Vandemar. 

Handsome  young  men,  with  the  lofty  look  of  the  old  race, 
dressed  with  the  punctilious  care  of  person  which  is  not  fop- 
pery in  men  of  birth,  but  seems  part  of  the  self-respect  that 
appertains  to  the  old  chivalric  point  of  honor.  The  horse  of 
one  of  these  cavaliers  made  a  caracole  which  brought  it  nearly 
upon  Alain  as  he  was  about  to  cross.  The  rider,  checking  his 
steed,  lifted  his  hat  to  Alain,  and  uttered  a  word  of  apology  in 
the  courtesy  of  ancient  high-breeding,  but  still  with  condescen- 
sion as  to  an  inferior.  This  little  incident,  and  the  slighting 
kind  of  notice  received  from  coevals  of  his  own  birth,  and 
doubtless  his  own  blood — for  he  divined  truly  that  they  were 
the  sons  of  the  Count  de  Vandemar — disconcerted  Alain  to  a 
degree  which  perhaps  a  Frenchman  alone  can  comprehend. 
He  had  even  half  a  mind  to  give  up  his  visit  and  turn  back. 
However,  his  native  manhood  prevailed  over  that  morbid 
sensitiveness  which,  born  out  of  the  union  of  pride  and  poverty, 
has  all  the  effects  of  vanity,  and  yet  is  not  vanity  itself. 

The  Count  was  at  home,  a  thin,  spare  man,  with  a  narrow 
but  high  forehead,  and  an  expression  of  countenance  keen, 
severe,  and  un  peu  moqueuse. 

He  received  the  Marquis,  however,  at  first  with  great  cor- 
diality, kissed  him  on  both  sides  of  his  cheek,  called  him 
"cousin,"  expressed  immeasurable  regret  that  the  Countess 
was  gone  out  on  one  of  the  missions  of  charity  in  which  the 
great  ladies  of  the  Faubourg  religiously  interest  themselves, 
and  that  his  sons  had  just  ridden  forth  to  the  Bois. 

As  Alain,  however,  proceeded,  simply  and  without  false 
shame,  to  communicate  the  object  of  his  visit  to  Paris,  the 
extent  of  his  liabilities,  and  the  penury  of  his  means,  the  smile 
vanished  from  the  Count's  face  ;  he  somewhat  drew  back  his 
fauteuil  in  the  movement  common  to  men  who  wish  to  estrange 
themselves  from  some  other  man's  difficulties  ;  and  when  Alain 
came  to  a  close,  the  Count  remained  some  moments  seized 
with  a  slight  cough  ;  and  gazing  intently  on  the  carpet,  at 


28  THE    PARISIANS. 

length  he  said  :  "  My  dear  young  friend,  your  father  behaved 
extremely  ill  to  you — dishonorably,  fraudulently." 

"  Hold  !  "  said  the  Marquis,  coloring  high.  "  Those  are 
words  no  man  can  apply  to  my  father  in  my  presence." 

The  Count  stared,  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  replied 
with  sang-froid : 

"  Marquis,  if  you  are  contented  with  your  father's  conduct, 
of  course  it  is  no  business  of  mine  :  he  never  injured  me. 
I  presume,  however,  that,  considering  my  years  and  my  char- 
acter, you  come  to  me  for  advice  ;  is  it  so  ?  " 

Alain  bowed  his  head  in  assent. 

"  There  are  four  courses  for  one  in  your  position  to  take," 
said  the  Count,  placing  the  index  of  the  right  hand  successive- 
ly on  the  thumb  and  three  fingers  of  the  left  ;  "  four  courses, 
and  no  more. 

"  First.  To  do  as  your  notary  recommended  :  consolidate 
your  mortgages,  patch  up  your  income  as  you  best  can,  return 
to  Rochebriant,  and  devote  the  rest  of  your  existence  to  the 
preservation  of  your  property.  By  that  course  your  life  will 
be  one  of  permanent  privation,  severe  struggle  ;  and  the  prob- 
ability is  that  you  will  not  succeed  :  there  will  come  one  or 
two  bad  seasons,  the  farmers  will  fail  to  pay,  the  mortgagee 
will  foreclose,  and  you  may  find  yourself,  after  twenty  years  of 
anxiety  and  torment,  prematurely  old  and  without  a  sou. 

"  Course  the  second.  Rochebriant,  though  so  heavily  en- 
cumbered as  to  yield  you  some  such  income  as  your  father 
gave  to  his  chrf  de  cuisine,  is  still  one  of  those  superb  terres 
which  bankers  and  Jews  and  stockjobbers  court  and  hunt  after, 
for  which  they  will  give  enormous  sums.  If  you  place  it  in 
good  hands,  I  do  not  doubt  that  you  could  dispose  of  the 
property  within  three  months,  on  terms  that  would  leave  you  a 
considerable  surplus,  which  invested  with  judgment,  would 
afford  you  whereon  you  could  live  at  Paris  in  a  way  suitable 
to  your  rank  and  age.  Need  we  go  further  ?  Does  this  course 
smile  to  you  ?" 

"  Pass  on,  Count ;  I  will  defend  to  the  last  what  I  take  from 
my  ancestors,  and  cannot  voluntarily  sell  their  rooftree  and 
their  tombs." 

"  Your  name  would  still  remain,  and  you  would  be  just  as 
well  received  in  Paris,  and  your  noblesse  just  as  implicitly  con- 
ceded, if  all  Judrea  encamped  upon  Rochebriant.  Consider 
how  few  of  us  gcntilshommes  of  the  old  regime  have  any  domains 
left  to  MS.  Our  names  alone  survive  ;  no  revolution  can  efface 
\kern? 


THE    PARISIANS.  2$ 

"  It  may  be  so,  but  pardon  me  ;  there  are  subjects  on  which 
we  cannot  reason,  we  can  but  feel.  Rochebriant  may  be  torn 
from  me,  but  I  cannot  yield  it." 

"  I  proceed  to  the  third  course.  Keep  the  chateau  and 
give  up  its  traditions;  remain  de  facto  Marquis  of  Rochebriant, 
but  accept  the  new  order  of  things.  Make  yourself  known  to 
the  people  in  power.  They  will  be  charmed  to  welcome  you  ; 
a  convert  from  the  old  noblesse  is  a  guarantee  of  stability  to  the 
new  system.  You  will  be  placed  in  diplomacy  ;  effloresce  into 
an  ambassador,  a  minister — and  ministers  nowadays  have  op- 
portunities to  become  enormously  rich." 

"  That  course  is  not  less  impossible  than  the  last.  Till  Henry 
V.  formally  resign  his  right  to  the  throne  of  St.  Louis,  I  can 
be  servant  to  no  other  man  seated  on  that  throne." 

"Such,  too,  is  my  creed,"  said  the  Count,  "and  I  cling  to  it; 
but  my  estate  is  not  mortgaged,  and  I  have  neither  the  tastes 
nor  the  age  for  public  employments.  The  last  course  is  per- 
haps better  than  the  rest  ;  at  all  events  it  is  the  easiest.  A 
wealthy  marriage  ;  even  if  it  must  be  a  mesalliance.  I  think  at 
your  age,  with  your  appearance,  that  your  name  is  worth  at 
least  two  million  francs  in  the  eyes  of  a  rich  roturier  with  an 
ambitious  daughter." 

"Alas  !  "  said  the  young  man,  rising,  "I  see  I  shall  have  to 
go  back  to  Rochebriant.  I  cannot  sell  my  castle,  I  cannot  sell 
my  creed,  and  I  cannot  sell  my  name  and  myself." 

"  The  last  all  of  us  did  in  the  old  regime,  Marquis.  Though 
I  still  retain  the  title  of  Vandemar,  my  property  comes  from 
the  Farmer-General's  daughter,  whom  my  great-grandfather, 
happily  for  us,  married  in  the  days  of  Louis  Quinze.  Mar- 
riages with  people  of  sense  and  rank  have  always  been  manages 
de  convenance  in  France.  It  is  only  in  le  petit  monde  that  men 
having  nothing  marry  girls  having  nothing,  and  I  don't  believe 
they  are  a  bit  the  happier  for  it.  On  the  contrary,  the  quarrels 
de  manage  leading  to  frightful  crimes  appear  by  the  Gazette  des 
Tribunaux  to  be  chiefly  found  among  those  who  do  not  sell 
themselves  at  the  altar." 

The  old  Count  said  this  with  a  grim  persiflage.  He  was  a 
Voltairian. 

Voltairianism  deserted  by  the  modern  Liberals  of  France 
has  its  chief  cultivation  nowadays  among  the  wits  of  the  old 
regime.  They  pick  up  its  light  weapons  on  the  battlefield  on 
which  their  fathers  perished,  and  refeather  against  the  canaille 
*he  shafts  which  had  been  pointed  against  the  noblesse. 

"  Adieu,  Count,"  said  Alain,  rising  ;  "I   do  not  thank  you 


50  THE   PARISIANS. 

less  for   your   advice   because   I   have   not  the  wit  to  profit 
by  it." 

"  Au  revoir,  my  cousin  ;  you  will  think  better  of  it  when 
you  have  been  a  month  or  two  at  Paris.  By  the  way,  my  wife 
receives  every  Wednesday  ;  consider  our  house  yours." 

"  Count,  can  I  enter  into  the  world  which  Madame  la- 
Comtesse  receives,  in  the  way  that  becomes  my  birth,  on  the 
income  I  take  from  my  fortune  ?  " 

The  Count  hesitated.  "  No,"  said  he  at  last,  frankly  ;  "  not 
because  you  will  be  less  welcome  or  less  respected,  but  because 
I  see  that  you  have  all  the  pride  and  sensitiveness  of  a  seigneur 
de  province.  Society  would  therefore  give  you  pain,  not  pleas- 
ure. More  than  this,  I  know  by  the  remembrance  of  my  own 
youth,  and  the  sad  experience  of  my  own  sons,  that  you  would 
be  irresistibly  led  into  debt,  and  debt  in  your  circumstances 
would  be  the  loss  of  Rochebrianr.  No  ;  I  invite  you  to  visit 
us.  I  offer  you  the  most  select,  but  not  the  most  brilliant, 
circles  of  Paris,  because  my  wife  is  religious,  and  frightens 
away  the  birds  of  gay  plumage  with  the  scarecrows  of  priests 
and  bishops.  But  if  you  accept  my  invitation  and  my  offer, 
I  am  bound,  as  an  old  man  of  the  world  to  a  young  kinsman, 
to  say  that  the  chances  are  that  you  will  be  ruined." 

"  I  thank  you,  Count,  for  your  candor  ;  and  I  now  acknowl- 
edge that  I  have  found  a  relation  and  a  guide,"  answered  the 
Marquis,  with  a  nobility  of  mien  that  was  not  without  a  pathos 
which  touched  the  hard  heart  of  the  old  man. 

"  Come  at  least  whenever  you  want  a  sincere,  if  a  rude, 
friend  " ;  and  though  he  did  not  kiss  his  cousin's  cheek  this 
time,  he  gave  him,  with  more  sincerity,  a  parting  shake  of  the 
hand. 

And  these  made  the  principal  events  in  Alain's  Paris  life  till 
he  met  Frederic  Lemercier.  Hitherto  he  had  received  no 
definite  answer  from  M.  Gandrin,  who  had  postponed  an  in- 
terview, not  having  had  leisure  to  make  himself  master  of  all 
the  details  in  the  abstract  sent  to  him. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

THE  next  day,  towards  the  afternoon,  Frederic  Lemercier, 
somewhat  breathless  from  the  rapidity  at  which  he  had  as- 
cended to  so  high  an  eminence,  burst  into  Alain's  chamber. 

" Pr-r !  mon  cher ;  what  superb  exercise  for  the  health' 
How  it  must  strengthen  the  muscles  and  expand  the  chest  \ 


THE    PARISIANS.  3! 

After  this,  who  should  shrink  from  scaling  Mont  Blanc  ? 
Well,  well.  I  have  been  meditating  on  your  business  ever 
since  we  parted.  But  I  would  fain  know  more  of  its  details. 
You  shall  confide  them  to  me  as  we  drive  through  the  Bois. 
My  coupe  is  below,  and  the  day  is  beautiful — come." 

To  the  young  Marquis  the  gayety,  the  heartiness  of  his  col- 
lege friend  were  a  cordial.  How  different  from  the  dry  coun- 
sels of  the  Count  de  Vandemar  !  Hope,  though  vaguely, 
entered  into  his  heart.  Willingly  he  accepted  Frederic's  invi- 
tation, and  the  young  men  were  soon  rapidly  borne  along  the 
Champs  Elysees.  As  briefly  as  he  could  Alain  described  the 
state  of  his  affairs,  the  nature  of  his  mortgages,  and  the  result 
of  his  interview  with  M.  Gandrin. 

Frederic  listened  attentively.  "Then  Gandrin  has  given  you 
as  yet  no  answer  ?  " 

"  None  ;  but  I  have  a  note  from  him  this  morning  asking 
me  to  call  to-morrow." 

"  After  you  have  seen  him  decide  on  nothing — if  he  makes 
you  any  offer.  Get  back  your  abstract,  or  a  copy  of  it,  and 
confide  it  to  me.  Gandrin  ought  to  help  you  ;  he  transacts 
affairs  in  a  large  way.  Belle  clientele  among  the  millionnaires. 
But  his  clients  expect  fabulous  profits,  and  so  does  he.  As  for 
your  principal  mortgagee,  Louvier,  you  know,  of  course,  who 
he  is." 

"No,  except  that  M.  Hebert  told  me  that  he  was  very  rich." 

"  Rich  !  I  should  think  so  !  One  of  the  Kings  of  Finance. 
Ah  !  observe  those  young  men  on  horseback." 

Alain  looked  forth  and  recognized  the  two  cavaliers  whom 
he  had  conjectured  to  be  the  sons  of  the  Count  de  Vandemar. 

"  Those  beaux  gar (ons  are  fair  specimens  of  your  Faubourg," 
said  Frederic  ;  they  would  decline  my  acquaintance  because 
my  grandfather  kept  a  shop,  and  they  keep  a  shop  between 
them." 

"  A  shop  !     I  am  mistaken,  then.     Who  are  they  ? " 

"  Raoul  and  Enguerrand,  sons  of  that  mocker  of  man,  the 
Count  de  Vandemar." 

"  And  they  keep  a  shop  !     You  are  jesting." 

"  A  shop  at  which  you  may  buy  gloves  and  perfumes,  Rue 
de  la  Chaussee  d'Antin.  Of  course  they  don't  serve  at  the 
counter  ;  they  only  invest  their  pocket-money  in  tlje  specula- 
tion, and,  in  so  doing,  treble  at  least  their  pocket-money,  buy 
their  horses,  and  keep  their  grooms." 

"  Is  it  possible  !  Nobles  of  such  birth  !  How  shocked  the 
Count  would  be  if  he  knew  it !  " 


32  THE    PARISIANS. 

"Yes,  very  much  shocked  if  he  was  supposed  to  know  it 
But  he  is  too  wise  a  father  not  to  give  his  sons  limited  allow- 
ances and  unlimited  liberty,  especially  the  liberty  to  add  to  the 
allowances  as  they  please.  Look  again  at  them  ;  no  better 
riders  and  more  affectionate  brothers  since  the  date  of  Castor 
and  Pollux.  Their  tastes  indeed  differ  ;  Raoul  is  religious  and 
moral,  melancholy  and  dignified ;  Enguerrand  is  a  lion  of  the 
first  water,  Elegant  to  the  tips  of  his  nails.  These  demigods 
are  nevertheless  very  mild  to  mortals.  Though  Enguerrand  is 
the  best  pistol-shot  in  Paris,  and  Raoul  the  best  fencer,  the  first 
is  so  good-tempered  that  you  would  be  a  brute  to  quarrel  with 
him,  the  last  so  true  a  Catholic  that  if  you  quarrelled  with 
him  you  need  fear  not  his  sword.  He  would  not  die  in  the 
committal  of  what  the  Church  holds  a  mortal  sin." 

"Are  you  speaking  ironically?  Do  you  mean  to  imply  that 
men  of  the  name  of  Vandemar  are  not  brave  ?  " 

"On  the  contrary,  I  believe  that,  though  masters  of  their 
weapons,  they  are  too  brave  to  abuse  their  skill ;  and  I  must 
add,  that  though  they  are  sleeping  partners  in  a  shop,  they 
would  not  cheat  you  of  a  farthing.  Benign  stars  on  earth,  as 
Castor  and  Pollux  were  in  heaven." 

"  But  partners  in  a  shop  !  " 

"Bah  !  when  a  minister  himself,  like  the  late  M.  de  M , 

kept  a  shop,  and  added  the  profits  of  bon-bons  to  his  revenue, 
you  may  form  some  idea  of  the  spirit  of  the  age.  1  f  young  nobles 
are  not  generally  sleeping  partners  in  shops,  still  they  are  more 
or  less  adventurers  in  commerce.  The  Bourse  is  the  profession 
of  those  who  have  no  other  profession.  You  have  visited  the 
Bourse  !  " 

"  No." 

"  No  !  this  is  just  the  hour.  We  have  time  yet  for  the  Bois. 
Coachman,  to  the  Bourse." 

"  The  fact  is,"  resumed  Frederic,  "  that  gambling  is  one  of 
the  wants  of  civilized  men.  The  rouge  et  noir  and  roulette  tables, 
are  forbidden — the  hells  closed  ;  but  the  passion  for  making 
money  without  working  for  it  must  have  its  vent,  and  that  vent 
is  the  Bourse.  As  instead  of  a  hundred  wax-lights  you  now 
have  one  jet  of  gas,  so  instead  of  a  hundred  hells  you  have  now 
one  Bourse,  and — it  is  exceedingly  convenient ;  always  at  hand  ; 
no  discredit  being  seen  there  as  it  was  to  be  seen  at  Frascati's; 
on  the  contrary,_at  once  respectable,  and  yet  the  mode." 

The  coup£  stops  at  the  Bourse,  our  friends  mount  the  steps, 
glide  through  the  pillars,  deposit  their  canes  at  a  place  destined 
to  guard  them,  and  the  Marquis  follows  Frederic  up  a  flight  of 


THE    PARISIANS.  33 

stairs  till  he  gains  the  open  gallery  round  a  vast  hall  below. 
Such  a  din  !  Such  a  clamor  !  Disputations,  wrangling,  wrathful. 

Here  Lemercier  distinguished  some  friends,  whom  he  joined 
for'k  few  minutes. 

Alain,  left  alone,  looked  down  into  the  hall.  He  thought 
himself  in  some  stormy  scene  of  the  First  Revolution.  An 
English  contested  election  in  the  market-place  of  a  borough 
when  the  candidates  are  running  close  on  each  other,  the  result 
doubtful,  passions  excited,  the  whole  borough  in  a  civil  war, 
is  peaceful  compared  to  the  scene  at  the  Bourse. 

Bulls  and  bears  screaming,  bawling,  gesticulating,  as  if  one 
were  about  to  strangle  the  other  ;  the  whole,  to  an  uninitiated 
eye,  a  confusion,  a  Babel,  which  it  seems  absolutely  impossible 
to  reconcile  to  the  notion  of  quiet  mercantile  transactions,  the 
purchase  and  sale  of  shares  and  stock's.  As  Alain  gazed  be- 
wildered, he  felt  himself  gently  touched,  and,  looking  round, 
saw  the  Englishman. 

"A  lively  scene  !  "  whispered  Mr.  Vane.  "This  is  the  heart 
of  Paris  :  it  beats  very  loudly." 

*'  Js  your  Bourse  in  London  like  this  ?  " 

"  I  cannot  tell  you  ;  at  our  Exchange  the  general  public  are 
not  admitted  ;  the  privileged  priests  of  that  temple  sacrifice 
their  victims  in  closed  penetralia,  beyond  which  the  sounds 
made  in  the  operation  do  not  travel  to  ears  profane.  But  had 
we  an  Exchange  like  this  open  to  all  the  world,  and  placed,  not  in 
a  region  of  our  metropolis  unknown  to  fashion,  but  in  some 
elegant  square  in  St.  James's  or  at  Hyde  Park  Corner,  I  suspect 
that  our  national  character  would  soon  undergo  a  great  change, 
and  that  all  our  idlers  and  sporting-men  would  make  their 
books  there  every  day,  instead  of  waiting  long  months  in  ennui 
for  the  Doncaster  and  the  Derby.  At  present  we  have  but  few 
men  on  the  turf  ;  we  should  then  have  few  men  not  on  Exchange, 
especially  if  we  adopt  your  law,  and  can  contrive  to  be  traders 
without  risk  of  becoming  bankrupts.  Napoleon  I.  called  us  a 
shopkeeping  nation.  Napoleon  III.  has  taught  France  to  excel 
us  in  everything,  and  certainly  he  has  made  Paris  a  shopkeeping 
city." 

Alain  thought  of  Raoul  and  Enguerrand,  and  blushed  to 
find  that  what  he  considered  a  blot  on  his  countrymen  was 
so  familiarly  perceptible  to  a  foreigner's  eye. 

"  And  the  Emperor  has  done  wisely,  at  least  for  the  time," 
continued  the  Englishman,  with  a  more  thoughtful  accent. 
"  He  has  found  vent  thus  for  that  very  dangerous  class  inParis 
society  to  which  the  subdivision  of  property  gave  birth,  viz., 


34  THE    PARISIANS. 

the  crowd  of  well-born,  daring  young  men  without  fortune  and 
without  profession.  He  has  opened  the  Bourse  and  said  : 
'  There,  I  give  you  employment,  resource,  an  avenir.'  He  has 
cleared  the  byways  into  commerce  and  trade,  and  opened  new 
avenues  of  wealth  to  the  noblesse,  whom  the  great  Revolution 
so  unwisely  beggared.  What  other  way  to  rebuild  a  noblesse  in 
France,  and  give  it  a  chance  of  power  because  an  access  to 
fortune  ?  But  to  how  many  sides  of  your  national  character 
has  the  Bourse  of  Paris  magnetic  attraction  !  You  Frenchmen 
are  so  brave  that  you  coo.ild  not  be  happy  without  facing  danger, 
so  covetous  of  distinction  that  you  would  pine  yourselves  away 
without  a  dash,  iofite  que  coiite,  at  celebrity  and  a  red  ribbon. - 
Danger  !  Look  below  at  that  arena — there  it  is  ;  danger,  daily, 
hourly.  But  there  also  is  celebrity  ;  win  at  the  Bourse,  as  of 
old  in  a  tournament,  and"  paladins  smile  on  you,  and  ladies 
give  you  their  scarves,  or,  what  is  much  the  same,  they  allow 
you  to  buy  their  cachemires.  Win  at  the  Bourse — what  follows? 
the  Chamber,  the  Senate,  the  Cross,  the  Minister's  portefcuillc. 
I  might  rejoice  in  all  this  for  the  sake  of  Europe,  could  it  last, 
and  did  it  not  bring  the  consequences  that  follow  the  demoral- 
ization which  attends  it.  The  Bourse  and  the  Credit  Mobilicr 
keep  Paris  quiet  ;  at  least  a?  quiet  as  it  can  be.  These  are  the 
secrets  of  this  reign  of  splendor  ;  these  the  two  lions  couchants 
on  which  rests  the  throne  of  the  Imperial  reconstructor." 

Alain  listened  surprised  and  struck.  He  had  not  given  the 
Englishman  credit  for  the  cast  of  mind  which  such  reflections 
evinced. 

Here  Lemercier  rejoined  them,  and  shook  hands  with 
Graham  Vane,  who,  taking  him  aside,  said  :  "But  you  prom- 
ised to  go  to  the  Bois,  and  indulge  my  insane  curiosity  about 
the  lady  in  the  pearl-colored  robe  ?  " 

"  I  have  not  forgotten  ;  it  is  not  half-past  two  yet  ;  you  said 
three.  Soycz-tranquille ;  I  drive  thither  from  the  Bourse  with 
Rochebriant." 

"  Is  it  necessary  to  take  with  you  that  very  good-looking 
Marquis  ?  " 

"  1  thought  you  said  you  were  not  jealous,  because  not  yet  in 
love.  However,  if  Rochebriant  occasions  you  the  pang  which 
your  humble  servant  failed  to  inflict,  I  will  take  care  that  he 
do  not  see  the  lady." 

"No,"  said  the  Englishman  ;  "on  consideration,  I  should  be 
very  much  obliged  to  any  one  with  whom  she  would  fall  in 
love.  That  would  disenchant  me.  Take  the  Marquis  by  all 
means." 


THE    PARISIANS.  35 

Meanwhile  Alain,  again  looking  down,  saw  just  under  him, 
close  by  one  of  the  pillars,  Lucien  Duplessis.  He  was  standing 
apart  from  the  throng — a  small  space  cleared  round  himself — 
and  two  men  who  had  the  air  of  gentlemen  of  the  beau  monde, 
with  whom  he  was  conferring.  Duplessis,  thus  seen,  was  not 
like  the  Duplessis  at  the  restaurant.  It  would  be  difficult  to 
explain  what  the  change  was,  but  it  forcibly  struck  Alain  :  the 
air  was  more  dignified,  the  expression  keener  ;  there  was  a  look 
of  conscious  power  and  command  about  the  man  even  at  that 
distance  ;  the  intense,  concentrated  intelligence  of  his  eye, 
his  firm  lip,  his  marked  features,  his  projecting,  massive  brow, 
would  have  impressed  a  very  ordinary  observer.  In  fact,  the 
man  was  here  in  his  native  element — in  the  field  in  which  his 
intellect  gloried,  commanded,  and  had  signalized  itself  by 
successive  triumphs.  Just  thus  may  be  the  change  in  the 
great  orator  whom  you  deemed  insignificant  in  a  drawing- 
room,  when  you  see  his  crest  rise  above  a  reverential  audience  ; 
or  the  great  soldier,  who  was  not  distinguishable  from  the  sub- 
altern in  a  peaceful  club,  could  you  see  him  issuing  the  order 
to  his  aides-de-camp  amidst  the  smoke  and  roar  of  the  battle- 
field. 

"  Ah,  Marquis  !  "  said  Graham  Vane,  "  are  you  gazing  at 
Duplessis  ?  He  is  the  modern  genius  of  Paris.  He  is  at  once 
the  Cousin,  the  Guizpt,  and  the  Victor  Hugo  of  speculation. 
Philosophy,  Eloquence,  audacious  Romance  ;  all  Literature 
now  is  swallowed  up  in  the  sublime  epic  of  Agiotage,  and  Du- 
plessis is  the  poet  of  the  Empire." 

"  Well  said,  M.  Grarm  Varn,"  cried  Frederic,  forgetting  his 
recent  lesson  in  English  names.  "  Alain  underrates  that  great 
man.  How  could  an  Englishman  appreciate  him  so  well  ?" 

"  Ma  foi!  "  returned  Graham  quietly  :  "  I  am  studying  to 
think  at  Paris,  in  order  some  day  or  other  to  know  how  to  act 
in  London.  Time  for  the  Bois.  Lemercier,  we  meet  at  seven — 
Philippe's." 

CHAPTER  V. 

"  WHAT  do  you  think  of  the  Bourse  ?"  asked  Lemercier,  as 
their  carriage  took  the  way  to  the  Bois. 

"  I  cannot  think  of  it  yet  ;  I  am  stunned.  It  seems  to  me 
as  if  I  had  been  at  a  Sabbat,  of  which  the  wizards  were  agents 
de  change,  but  not  less  bent  upon  raising  Satan." 

"  Pooh  !  The  best  way  to  exorcise  Satan  is  to  get  rich  enough 
not  to  be  tempted  by  him.  The  fiend  always  loved  to  haunt 


36  THE    PARISIANS. 

empty  places  ;  and  of  all  places  nowadays  he  prefers  empty 
purses  and  empty  stomachs." 

"  But  do  all  people  get  rich  at  the  Bourse  ?  Or  is  not  one 
man's  wealth  many  men's  ruin  ?  " 

"That  is  a  question  not  very  easy  to  answer;  but  under  our 
present  system  Paris  gets  rich,  though  at  the  expense  of  indi- 
vidual Parisians.  I  will  try  and  explain.  The  average  luxury 
is  enormously  increased  even  in  my  experience  ;  what  were 
once  considered  refinements  and  fopperies  are  now  called 
necessary  comforts.  Prices  are  risen  enormously  ;  house-rent 
doubled  within  the  last  five  or  six  years  ;  all  articles  of  luxury 
are  very  much  dearer;  the  very  gloves  I  wear  cost  twenty  per 
cent,  more  than  I  used  to  pay  for  gloves  of  the  same  quality. 
How  the  people  we  meet  live,  and  live  so  well,  is  an  enigma 
that  would  defy  CEdipus  if  CEdipus  were  not  a  Parisian.  But 
the  main  explanation  is  this  :  speculation  and  commerce,  with 
the  facilities  given  to  all  investments,  have  really  opened  more 
numerous  and  more  rapid  ways  to  fortune  than  were  known 
a  few  years  ago. 

"Crowds  are  thus  attracted  to  Paris,  resolved  to  venture  a 
small  capital  in  the  hope  of  a  large  one  ;  they  live  on  that 
capital,  not  on  their  income,  as  gamesters  do.  There  is  an 
idea  among  us  that  it  is  necessary  to  seem  rich  in  order  to  be- 
come rich.  Thus  there  is  a  general  ex-travagance  and  profu- 
sion. English  milords  marvel  at  our  splendor.  Those  who, 
while  spending  their  capital  as  their  income,  fail  in  their 
schemes  of  fortune,  after  one,  two,  three,  or  four  years,  vanish. 
What  becomes  of  them,  I  know  no  more  than  I  do  what  be- 
comes of  the  old  moons.  Their  place  is  immediately  supplied 
by  new  candidates.  Paris  is  thus  kept  perennially  sumptuous 
and  splendid  by  the  gold  it  engulfs.  But  then  some  men 
succeed — succeed  prodigiously,  preternaturally — they  make 
colossal  fortunes,  which  are  magnificently  expended.  They 
set  an  example  of  show  and  pomp,  which  is  of  course  the  more 
contagious  because  so  many  men  say,  'The  other  day  those 
millionnaires  were  as  poor  as  we  are  ;  they  never  economized  ; 
why  should  we?'  Paris  is  thus  doubly  enriched  :  by  the 
fortunes  it  swallows  up,  and  by  the  fortunes  it  casts  up  ;  the 
last  being  always  reproductive,  and  the  first  never  lost  except 
to  the  individuals." 

"  I  understand  ;  but  what  struck  me  forcibly  at  the  scene 
we  have  left  was  the  number  of  young  men  there  ;  young  men 
whom  I  should  judge  by  their  appearance  to  be  gentlemen, 
evidently  not  mere  spectators,  eager,  anxious,  with  tablets  in 


THE   PARISIANS.  37 

% 

their  hands.  That  old  or  middle-aged  men  should  find  a 
zest  in  the  pursuit  of  gain  I  can  understand,  but  youth  and 
avarice  seem  to  me  a  new  combination,  which  Moliere  never 
divined  in  his  'Avare.'" 

"  Young  men,  especially  if  young  gentlemen,  love  pleasure ; 
and  pleasure  in  this  city  is  very  dear.  This  explains  why  so 
many  young  men  frequent  the  Bourse.  In  the  old  gaming- 
tables, now  suppressed,  young  men  were  the  majority;  in  the 
days  of  your  chivalrous  forefathers  it  was  the  young  nobles, 
not  the  old,  who  would  stake  their  very  mantles  and  swords  on 
a  cast  of  the  die.  And,  naturally  enough,  man  cher;  for  is  not 
youth  the  season  of  hope,  and  is  not  hope  the  goddess  of  gtrm- 
ing,  whether  at  rouge  et  noir  or  the  Bourse  ?  " 

Alain  felt  himself  more  and  more  behind  his  generation. 
The  acute  reasoning  of  Lemercier  humbled  his  amour  prof>re. 
At  college  Lemercier  was  never  considered  Alain's  equal  in 
ability  or  book-learning.  What  a  stride  beyond  his  schoolfel- 
low had  Lemercier  now  made  !  How  dull  and  stupid  the 
young  provincial  felt  himself  to  be  as  compared  with  the  easy 
cleverness  and  half-sportive  philosophy  of  the  Parisian's  fluent 
talk  ! 

He  sighed  with  a  melancholy  and  yet  with  a  generous  envy. 
He  had  too  fine  a  natural  perception  not  to  acknowledge  that 
there  is  a  rank  of  mind  as  well  as  of  birth,  and  in  the  first  he  felt 
that  Lemercier  might  well  walk  before  a  Rochebriant ;  but  his 
very  humility  was  a  proof  that  he  underrated  himself. 

Lemercier  did  not  excel  him  in  mind,  but  in  experience. 
And  just  as  the  drilled  soldier  seems  a  much  finer  fellow  than 
the  raw  recruit,  because  he  knows  how  to  carry  himself,  but 
after  a  year's  discipline  the  raw  recruit  may  excel  in  martial 
air  the  upright  hero  whom  he  now  despairingly  admires,  and 
never  dreams  he  can  rival ;  so  set  a  mind  from  a  village  into 
the  drill  of  a  capital,  and  see  it  a  year  after  ;  it  may  tower  a 
head  higher  than  its  recruiting-sergeant. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

"  I  BELIEVE,"  said  Lemercier,  as  the  coupe  rolled  through  the 
lively  alleys  of  the  Bois  de  Boulogne,  "that  Paris  is  built  on  a 
loadstone,  and  that  every  Frenchman  with  some  iron  globules 
in  his  blood  is  irresistibly  attracted  towards  it.  The  English 
never  seem  to  feel  for  London  the  passionate  devotion  that  we 
feel  for  Paris.  On  the  contrary,  the  London  middle  class,  the 


38  THE    PARISIANS. 

4 

commercialists,  the  shopkeepers,  the  clerks,  even  the  superior 
artisans  compelled  to  do  their  business  in  the  capital,  seem  al- 
ways scheming  and  pining  to  have  their  home  out  of  it,  though 
but  in  a  suburb." 

"  You  have  been  in  London,  Frederic  ?" 

"Of  course;  it  is  the  mode  to  visit  that  dull  and  hideous 
metropolis." 

"  If  it  be  dull  and  hideous,  no  wonder  the  people  who  are 
compelled  to  do  business  in  it  seek  the  pleasures  of  home  out 
of  it." 

"It  is  very  droll  that  though  the  middle  class  entirely  govern 
the  melancholy  Albion,  it  is  the  only  country  in  Europe  in 
which  the  middle  class  seem  to  have  no  amusements  ;  nay,  they 
legislate  against  amusement.  They  have  no  leisure-day  but 
Sunday  ;  and  on  that  day  they  close  all  their  theatres,  e"ven 
their  museums  and  picture-galleries.  What  amusements  there 
may  be  in  England  are  for  the  higher  classes  and  the  lowest." 

"What  are  the  amusements  of  the  lowest  class?" 

"Getting  drunk." 

"Nothing  else ?" 

"Yes.  I  was  taken  at  night  under  protection  of  a  police- 
man to  some  cabarets,  where  I  found  crowds  of  that  class 
which  is  the  stratum  below  the  working  class  ;  lads  who  sweep 
crossings  and  hold  horses,  mendicants,  and,  I  was  told,  thieves, 
girls  whom  a  servant-maid  would  not  speak  to — very  merry — • 
dancing  quadrilles  and  waltzes,  and  regaling  themselves  on 
sausages;  the  happiest-looking  folks  I  found  in  all  London, 
and,  I  must  say,  conducting  themselves  very  decently." 

"Ah!"  Here  Lemercier  pulled  the  check-string.  "Will 
you  object  to  a  walk  in  this  quiet  alley  ?  I  see  some  one  whom 
I  have  promised  the  Englishman  to —  But  heed  me,  Alain; 
don't  fall  in  love  with  her." 


CHAPTER  VII. 

THE  lady  in  the  pearl-colored  dress '.  Certainly  it  was  a 
face  that  might  well  arrest  the  eye  and  linger  long  on  the  re- 
membrance. 

There  are  certain  "beauty-women"  as  there  are  certain 
"beauty-men,"  in  whose  features  one  detects  no  fault;  who 
are  the  show  figures  of  any  assembly  in  which  they  appear ; 
but  who,  somehow  or  other,  inspire  no  sentiment  and  excite  no 
interest ;  they  lack  some  expression,  whether  of  mind,  or  of 


THE    PARISIANS.  39 

soul,  or  of  heart,  without  which  the  most  beautiful  face  is  but 
a  beautiful  picture.  This  lady  was  not, one  of  those  "beauty- 
women."  Her  features  taken  singly  were  by  no  means  per- 
fect, nor  were  they  set  off  by  any  brilliancy  of  coloring  ;  but 
the  countenance  aroused  and  impressed  the  imagination  with  a 
belief  that  there  was  some  history  attached  to  it  which  you 
longed  to  learn.  The  hair,  simply  parted  over  a  forehead  un- 
usually spacious  and  high  for  a  woman,  was  of  lustrous  dark- 
ness ;  the  eyes,  of  a  deep  violet  blue,  were  shaded  with  long 
lashes. 

Their  expression  was  soft  and  mournful,  but  unobservant. 
She  did  not  notice  Alain  and  Lemercier  as  the  two  men  slowly 
passed  her.  She  seemed  abstracted,  gazing  into  space  as  one 
absorbed  in  thought  or  revery.  Her  complexion  was  clear 
and  pale,  and  apparently  betokened,  delicate  health. 

Lemercier  seated  himself  on  a  bench  beside  the  path,  and 
invited  Alain  to  do  the  same.  "  She  will  return  this  way 
soon,"  said  the  Parisian,  "and  we  can  observe  her  more  atten- 
tively and  more  respectfully  thus  seated  than  if  we  were  on 
foot  ;  meanwhile,  what  do  you  think  of  her?  Is  she  French  ? 
Is  she  Italian  ?  Can  she  be  English  ?  " 

"I  should  have  guessed  Italian,  judging  by  the  darkness  of 
the  hair  and  the  outline  of  the  features.  But  do  Italians  have 
so  delicate  a  fairness  of  complexion  ?" 

"Very  rarely;  and  I  should  guess  her  to  be  French,  judg- 
ing by  the  intelligence  of  her  expression,  the  simple  neatness 
of  her  dress,  and  by  that  nameless  refinement  of  air  in  which  a 
Parisienne  excels  all  the  descendants  of  Eve,  if  it  were  not  for 
her  eyes.  I  never  saw  a  Frenchwoman  with  eyes  of  that 
peculiar  shade  of  blue ;  and  if  a  Frenchwoman  had  such  eyes, 
I  flatter  myself  she  would  have  scarcely  allowed  us  to  pass 
without  making  some  use  of  them." 

'"  Do  you  think  she  is  married  ?"  asked  Alain. 

"  I  hope  so,  for  a  girl  of  her  age,  if  comme  ilfaut,  can  scarce- 
ly walk  alone  in  the  Bois,  and  would  not  have  acquired  that 
look,  so  intelligent — more  than  intelligent — so  poetic." 

'*  But  regard  that  air  of  unmistakable  distinction  ;  regard 
that  expression  of  face — so  pure,  so  virginal  :  comme  il  fant 
she  must  be." 

As  Alain  said  these  last  words,  the  lady,  who  had  turned 
back,  was  approaching  them,  and  in  full  view  of  their  gaze. 
She  seemed  unconscious  of  their  existence  as  before,  and  Le- 
mercier noticed  that  her  lips  moved  as  if  she  were  murmuring 
inaudibly  to  herself. 


40  THE    PARISIANS. 

She  did  not  return  again,  but  continued  her  walk  straight  on 
till  at  the  end  of  the  alley  she  entered  a  carriage  in  waiting 
for  her.  and  was  driven  off. 

"  Quick,  quick  !  "  cried  Lemercier,  running  towards  his  own 
coupe.  "  We  must  give  chase." 

Alain  followed  somewhat  less  hurriedly,  and,  agreeably  to 
instructions  Lemercier  had  already  given  to  his  coachman,  the 
Parisian's  coup£  set  off  at  full  speed  in  the  track  of  the 
strange  lady's,  which  was  still  in  sight. 

In  less  than  twenty  minutes  the  carriage  in  chase  stopped  at 
the  grille  of  one  of  those  charming  little  villas  to  be  found  in 

the  pleasant  suburb  of  A ;  a  porter  emerged  from  the 

lodge,  opened  the  gate  ;  the  carriage  drove  in,  again  stopped 
at  the  door  of  the  house,  and  the  two  gentlemen  could  not  catch 
even  a  glimpse  of  the  lady's  robe  as  she  descended  from  the 
carriage  and  disappeared  within  the  house. 

"  I  see  a  cafe  yonder,"  said  Lemercier  ;  "  let  us  learn  all  we 
can  as  to  the  fair  unknown  over  a  sorbet  or  a.  petit  rerre." 

Alain  silently,  but  not  reluctantly,  consented.  He  felt  in  the 
fair  stranger  an  interest  new  to  his  existence. 

They  entered  the  little  cafe,  and  in  a  few  minutes  Lemercier, 
with  the  easy  savoir  vivre  of  a  Parisian,  had  extracted  from  the 
garfon  as  much  as  probably  any  one  in  the  neighborhood  knew 
of  the  inhabitants  of  the  villa. 

It  had  been  hired  and  furnished  about  two  months  previous- 
ly in  the  name  of  Signora  Venosta  ;  but  according  to  the  report 
of  the  servants,  that  lady  appeared  to  be  the  gourcrminte  or 
guardian  of  a  lady  much  younger,  out  of  whose  income  the 
villa  was  rented  and  the  household  maintained. 

It  was  for  her  the  coupe  was  hired  from  Paris.  The  elder 
lady  very  rarely  stirred  out  during  the  day,  but  always  accom- 
panied the  younger  in  any  evening  visits  to  the  theatre  or  the 
houses  of  friends. 

It  was  only  within  the  last  few  weeks  that  such  visits  had 
been  made. 

The  younger  lady  was  in  delicate  health,  and  under  the 
care  of  an  English  physician  famous  for  skill  in  the  treatment 
of  pulmonary  ccwrtplaints.  It  was  by  his  advice  that  she  took 
daily  walking  exercise  in  the  Bois.  The  establishment  consisted 
of  three  servants,  all  Italians,  and  speaking  but  imperfect  French. 
Tbe£0/rf0*  did  not  know  whether  either  of  the  ladies  was  mar- 
ried, but  their  mode  of  life  was  free  from  all  scandal  or  sus- 
picion ;  they  probably  belonged  to  the  literary  or  musical 
world,  as  the  gar  (on  had  observed  as  their  visitors  the  eminent 


• 


THE    PARISIANS.  4! 

author  M.  Savarin  and  his  wife  ;  and,  still  more  frequently, 
an  old  man  not  less  eminent  as  a  musical  composer. 

"  It  is  clear  to  me  no\v,"  said  Lemercier,  as  the  two  friends 
reseated  themselves  in  the  carriage,  "that  our  pearly  ange  is 
some  Italian  singer  of  repute  enough  in  her  own  country  to 
have  gained  already  a  competence  ;  and  that,  perhaps  on 
account  of  her  own  health  or  her  friend's,  she  is  living  quietly 
here  in  the  expectation  of  some  professional  engagement,  or 
the  absence  of  some  foreign  lover." 

"  Lover!  Do  you  think  that?  "  exclaimed  Alain,  in  a  tone 
of  voice  that  betrayed  pain. 

"  It  is  possible  enough  ;  and  in  that  case  the  Englishman  may 
profit  little  by  the  information  I  have  promised  to  give  him." 

"  You  have  promised  the  Englishman  ?" 

"  Do  you  not  remember  last  night  that  he  described  the 
lady,  and  said  that  her  face  haunted  him  ;  and  I — " 

"  Ah  !  I  remember  now.  What  do  you  know  of  this  English- 
man ?  He  is  rich,  I  suppose." 

"  Yes,  I  hear  he  is  very  rich  now  ;  that  an  uncle  lately  left 
him  an  enormous  sum  of  money.  He  was  attached  to  the 
English  Embassy  many  years  ago,  which  accounts  for  his 
good  French  and  his  knowledge  of  Parisian  life.  He  comes 
to  Paris  very  often,  and  I  have  known  him  some  time.  Indeed 
he  has  intrusted  to  me  a  difficult  and  delicate  commission. 
The  English  tell  me  that  his  father  was  one  of  the  most 
eminent  members  of  their  Parliament,  of  ancient  birth,  very 
highly  connected,  but  ran  out  his  fortune  and  died  poor  ;  that 
our  friend  had  for  some  years  to  maintain  himself,  I  fancy,  by 
his  pen  ;  that  he  is  considered  very  able  ;  and,  now  that  his 
uncle  has  enriched  him,  likely  to  enter  public  life  and  run  a 
career  as  distinguished  as  his  father's." 

"  Happy  man  !  Happy  are  the  English,"  said  the  Marquis, 
with  a  sigh  ;  and  as  the  carriage  now  entered  Paris,  he 
pleaded  the  excuse  of  an  engagement,  bade  his  friend  good- 
bye, and  went  his  way  musing  through  the  crowded  streets. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

Letter  from  Isaura  Cicogna  to  Madame  de  Grantmesnil. 

VILLA  D' — — .  A 


I  CAN  never  express  to  you,  my  beloved  Eulalie,  the  strange 
charm  which   a  letter  from  you  throws  -over  my  poor  little 


42  THE    PARISIANS. 

lonely  world  for  days  after  it  is  received.  There  is  always  ii 
it  something  that  comforts,  something  that  sustains,  but  alsc 
a  something  that  troubles  and  disquiets  me.  I  suppose  Goeth* 
is  right,  "  that  it  is  the  property  of  true  genius  to  disturb  all 
settled  ideas,"  in  order,  no  doubt,  to  lift  them  into  a  higher 
level  when  they  settle  down  again. 

Your  sketch  of  the  new  work  you  are  meditating  amid  the 
orange  groves  of  Provence  interests  me  intensely  ;  yet,  do  you 
forgive  me  when  I  add  that  the  interest  is  not  without  terror. 
I  do  not  find  myself  able  to  comprehend  how,  amid  those 
lovely  scenes  of  nature,  your  mind  voluntarily  surrounds  itself 
with  images  of  pain  and  discoid.  I  stand  in  awe  of  the  calm 
with  which  you  subject  to  your  analysis  the  infirmities  of 
reason  and  the  tumults  of  passion.  And  all  those  laws  of  the 
social  state  which  seem  to  be  so  fixed  and  immovable  you  treat 
with  so  quiet  a  scorn,  as  if  they  were  but  the  gossamer  threads 
which  a  touch  of  your  slight  woman's  hand  could  brush  away. 
But  I  cannot  venture  to  discuss  such  subjects  with  you.  It  is 
only  the  skilled  enchanter  who  can  stand  safely  in  the  magic 
circle,  and  compel  the  spirits  that  he  summons,  even  if  they 
are  evil,  to  minister  to  ends  in  which  he  foresees  a  good. 

We  continue  to  live  here  very  quietly,  and  I  do  not  as  yet 
feel  the  worse  for  the  colder  climate.  Indeed,  my  wonderful 
doctor,  who  was  recommended  to  me  as. American,  but  is  in 
reality  English,  assures  me  that  a  single  winter  spent  here 
under  his  care  will  suffice  for  my  complete  re-establishment. 
Yet  that  career,  to  the  training  for  which  so  many  years  have 
been  devoted,  does  not  seem  to  me  so  alluring  as  it  once  did. 

I  have  much  to  say  on  this  subject,  which  I  defer  till  I  can 
better  collect  my  own  thoughts  onit;  atpresent  they  are  confused 
and  struggling.  The  great  Maestro  has  been  most  gracious. 

In  what  a  radiant  atmosphere  his  genius  lives  and  breathes  ! 
Even  in  his  cynical  moods,  his  very  cynicism  has  in  it  the  ring 
of  the  jocund  music — the  laugh  of  Figaro,  not  of  Mephistoph- 
eles. 

We  went  to  dine  with  him  last  week  ;  he  invited  to  meet  us 

Madame  S ,  who  has  this  year  conquered  all  opposition, 

and  reigns  alone,  the  great  S .     Mr.  T ,  a  pianist  of 

admirable  promise;  your  friend,  M.  Savarin,  wit,  critic,  and 
poet,  with  his  pleasant,  sensible  wife,  and  a  few  others  whom 
the  Maestro  confided  to  me  in  a  whisper  were  authorities  in 

the  press.     After  dinner  S sang  to  us,  magnificently,  of 

course.  Then  she  herself  graciously  turned  to  me,  said  how 
much  she  had  h-eard  from  the  Maestro  in  my  praise,  and  so- 


THE    PARISIANS.  43 

and-so.  I  was  persuaded  to  sing  after  her.  I  need  not  say  to 
what  disadvantage.  But  I  forgot  my  nervousness  ;  I  forgot 
my  audience  ;  I  forgot  myself,  as  I  always  do  when  once  my 
soul,  as  it  were,  finds  wing  in  music,  and  buoys  itself  in  air,  re- 
lieved from  the  sense  of  earth.  I  knew  not  that  I  had  suc- 
ceeded till  I  came  to  a  close,  and  then  my  eyes  resting  on 
the  face  of  the  grand  prima  donna,  I  was  seized  with  an  inde- 
scribable sadness,  with  a  keen  pang  of  remorse.  Perfect 
artiste  though  she  be,  and  with  powers  in  her  own  realm  of  art 
which  admit  of  no  living  equal,  I  saw  at  once  that  I  had  pained 
her  ;  she  had  grown  almost  livid  ;  her  lips  were  quivering,  and 
it  was  only  with  a  great  effort  that  she  muttered  out  some  faint 
words  intended  for  applause.  I  comprehended  by  an  instinct 
how  gradually  there  can  grow  upon  the  mind  of  an  artist  the 
most  generous  that  jealousy  which  makes  the  fear  of  a  rival 

annihilate  the  delight  in  art.  If  ever  I  should  achieve  S 's 

fame  as  a  singer,  should  I  feel  the  same  jealousy  ?  I  think 
not  now,  but  I  have  not  been  tested.  She  went  away  abruptly. 
I  spare  you  the  -recital  of  the  compliments  paid  to, me  by  my 
other  auditors,  compliments  that  gave  me  no  pleasure  ;  for  on 
all  lips,  except  those  of  the  Maestro,  they  implied,  as  the  height 

of  eulogy,  that  I  had  inflicted  torture  upon  S .  "  If  so," 

said  he,  "  she  would  be  as  foolish  as  a  rose  that  was  jealous  of 
the  whiteness  of  a  lily.  You  would  do  yourself  great  wrong, 
my  child,  if  you  tried  to  vie  with  the  rose  in  its  ow*h  color." 

He  patted  my  bended  head  as  he  spoke,  with  that  kind  of 
fatherly  king-like  fondness  with  which  he  honors  me  ;  and  I 
took  his  hand  in  mine  and  kissed  it  gratefully.  "Neverthe- 
less," said  Savarin,  "  when  the  lily  comes  out  there  will  be  a 
furious  attack  on  it,  made  by  the  clique  that  devotes  itself  to 
the  rose  ;  a  lily  clique  will  be  formed  en  revanche,  and  I  fore- 
see a  fierce  paper  war.  Do  not  be  frightened  at  its  first  out- 
burst ;  every  fame  worth  having  must  be  fought  for." 

Is  it  so?  have  you  had  to  fight  for  your  fame,  Eulalie  ?  And 
do  you  hate  all  contests  as  much  as  I  do  ? 

Our  only  other  gayety  since  I  last  wrote  was  a  soiree  at  M. 
Louvier's.  That  republican  millionnaire  was  not  slow  in  at- 
tending to  the  kind  letter  you  addressed  to  him  recommending 
us  to  his  civilities.  He  called  at  once,  placed  his  good  offices 
at  our  disposal,  took  charge  of  my  modest  fortune,  which  he 
has  invested,  no  doubt,  as  safely  as  it  is  advantageously  in  point 
of  interest,  hired  our  carriage  for  us,  and  in  short  has  been 
most  amiably  useful. 

At  his  house  we  met  many  to  me  most  pleasant,  for  they 


44  THE    PARISIANS. 

spoke  with  such  genuine  appreciation  of  your  works  and  your- 
self. But  there  were  others  whom  I  should  never  have  expect- 
ed to  meet  under  the  roof  of  a  Croesus  who  has  so  great  a  stake 
in  the  order  of  things  established.  One  young-man — a  noble 
whom  he  specially  presented  to  me,  as  a  politician  who  would 
be  at  the  head  of  affairs  when  the  Red  Republic  was  estab- 
lished— asked  me  whether  I  did  not  agree  with  him  that  all 
private  property  was  public  spoliation,  and  that  the  great  enemy 
to  civilization  was  religion,  no  matter  in  what  form. 

He  addressed  to  me  these  tremendous  questions  with  an  ef- 
feminate lisp,  and  harangued  on  them  with  small,  feeble*  ges- 
ticulations of  pale,  dainty  fingers  covered  with  rings. 

I  asked  him  if  there  were  many  who  in  France  shared  his 
ideas. 

"Quite  enough  to  carry  them  some  day,"  he  answered  with 
a  lofty  smile.  ''And  the  day  may  be  nearer  than  the  world 
thinks,  when  my  confreres  will  be  so  numerous  that  they  will 
have  to  shoot  down  each  other  for  the  sake  of  cheese  to  their 
bread." 

That  day  nearer  than  the  world  thinks  !  Certainly,  so  far 
as  one  may  judge  the  outward  signs  of  the  world  at  Paris,  it 
does  not  think  of  such  things  at  all.  With  what  an  air  of  self- 
content  the  beautiful  city  parades  her  riches  !  "Who  can  gaze 
on  her  splendid  palaces,  her  gorgeous  shops,  and  believe  that  she 
will  give  ea*r  to  doctrines  that  would  annihilate  private  rights 
of  property  ;  or  who  can  enter  her  crowded  churches  and 
dream  that  she  can  ever  again  instal  a  republic  too  civilized 
for  religion  ? 

Adieu.  Excuse  me  for  this  dull  letter.  If  I  have  written 
on  much  that  has  little  interest  even  for  me,  it  is  that  I  wish  to 
distract  my  mind  from  brooding  over  the  question  that  interests 
me  most,  and  on  which  I  most  need  your  counsel.  I  will  try 
to  approach  it  in  my  next.  ISAURA. 

From  the  Same  to  the  Same. 

Eulalie,  Eulalie  !  What  mocking  spirit  has  been  permitted 
in  this  modern  age  of  ours  to  place  in  the  heart  of  woman  the 
ambition  which  is  the  prerogative  of  men  ?  You  indeed,  so  richly 
endowed  with  a  man's  genius,  have  a  right  to  man's  aspirations. 
But  what  can  justify  such  ambition  in  me?  Nothing  but  this 
one  unintellectual,  perishable  gift t>f  a  voice  that  does  but 
please  in  uttering  the  thoughts  of  others.  Doubtless  I  could 
make  a  name  familiar  for  its  brief  time  to  the  talk  ofEurope — 
a  name,  what  name  ?  A  singer's  name.  Once  I  thought  thaf 


THE    PARISIANS.  45 

name  a  glory.  Shall  I  ever  forget  the  day  when  you  first  shone 
upon  me  ;  when,  emerging  from  childhood  as  from  a  dim  and 
solitary  bypath,  I  stood  forlorn  on  the  great  thoroughfare  of 
life,  and  all  the  prospects  before  me  stretched  sad  in  mists  and 
in  rain  ?  You  beamed  on  me  then  as  the  sun  coming  out  from 
the  cloud  and  changing  the  face  of  earth  ;  you  opened  to  my 
sight  the  fairy-land  of  poetry  and  art ;  you  took  me  by  the 
hand  and  said  :  "  Courage  !  There  is  at  each  step  some  green 
gap  in  the  hedgerows,  some  soft  escape  from  the  stony  thorough- 
fare. Beside  the  real  life  expands  the  ideal  life  to  those  who 
seek  it.  Droop  not,  seek  it ;  the  ideal  life  has  its  sorrows,  but 
it  never  admits  despair  ;  as  on  the  ear  of  him  who  follows  the 
winding  course  of  a  stream,  the  stream  ever  varies  the  note  of 
its  music  ;  now  loud  with  the  rush  of  the  falls  ;  now  low  and 
calm  as  it  glides  by  the  level  marge  of  smooth  banks  ;  now 
sighing  through  the  stir  of  the  reeds  ;  now  bubbling  with  a 
fretful  joy  as  some  sudden  curve  on  the  shore  stays  its  flight 
among  the  gleaming  pebbles — so  to  the  soul  of  the  artist  is  the 
voice  of  the  art  ever  fleeting  beside  and  before  him.  Nature 
gave  thee  the  bird's  gift  of  song ;  raise  the  gift  into  art,  and 
make  the  art  thy  companion. 

"Art  and  Hope  were  twin-born,  and  they  die  together." 
See  how  faithfully  I  remember,  methinks,  your  very  words. 
But  the  magic  of  the  words,  which  I  then  but  dimlytThder- 
stood,  was  in  your  smile  and  in  your  eye,  and  the  queen- 
like  wave  of  your  hand  as  if  beckoning  to  a  world  which 
lay  before  you,  visible  and  familiar  as  your  native  land.  And- 
how  devotedly,  with  what  earnestness  of  passjon,  I  gave  my- 
self up  to  the  task  of  raising  my  gift  into  an  art !  I  thought 
of  nothing  else,  dreamed  of  nothing  else  ;  and  oh,  how  sweet 
to  me  then  were  words  of  praise!  "Another  year  yet,"  at 
length  said  the  masters,  "  and  you  ascend  your  throne  among 
the  queens  of  song."  Then — then — I  would  have  changed  for 
no  other  throne  on  earth  my  hope  of  that  to  be  achieved  in 
the  realms  of  my  art.  .And  then  came,  that  long  fever:  my 
strength  broke  down,  and  the  Maest/o  said,  "Rest,  or  your 
voice  is  gone,  and  your  throne  is  lost  forever."  How  hate- 
ful that  rest  seemed  to  me  !  You  again  came  to  my  aid. 
You  'said:  "The  time  you  think  lost  should  be  but  time  im- 
proved. Penetrate  your  mind  with  other  songs  than  the  trash 
of  libretti.  The  more  you  h'abituate  yourself  to  the  forms,  the 
more  you  imbue  yourself  with  the  spirit,  in  which  passions  have 
been  expressed  and  character  delineated  by  great  writers,  the 
more  completely  you  will  accomplish  yourself  in  your  own  spe- 


46  THE   PARISIANS. 

cial  art  of  singer  and  actress."  So,  then,  you  allured  me  to  a 
new  study.  .  Ah  !  in  so  doing  did  you  dream  that  you  diverted 
me  from  the  old  ambition  ?  My  knowledge  of  French  and  Ital- 
ian, and  my  rearing  in  childhood,  which  had  made  English 
familiar  to  me,  gave  me  the  keys  to  the  treasure  houses  of  three 
languages.  Naturally  I  began  with  that  in  which  your  master- 
pieces are  composed.  Till  then  I  had  not  even  read  your  works. 
They  were  the  first  I  chose.  How  they  impressed,  how  they 
startled  me  !  What  depths  in  the  mind  of  man,  in  the  heart  of 
woman,  they  revealed  to  me  !  But  I  owned  to  you  then,  and  I 
repeat  it  now,  neither  they  nor  any  of  the  works  in  romance  and 
poetry  which  form  the  boast  of  recent  French  literature,  satis- 
fied yearnings  for  that  calm  sense  of  beauty,  that  divine  joy  in 
a  world  beyond  this  world,  which  you  had  led  me  to  believe  it 
was  the  prerogative  of  ideal  art  to  bestow.  And  when  I  told 
you  this  with  the  rude  frankness  you  had  bid  me  exercise  in 
talk  with  you,  a  thoughtful,  melancholy  shade  fell  over  your 
face,  and  you  said  quietly  :  "  You  are  right,  child  ;  we,  the  French 
of  our  time,  are  the  offspring  of  revolutions  that  settled  nothing, 
unsettled  all  :  we  resemble  those  troubled  States  which  rush  into 
war  abroad  in  order  to  re-establish  peace  at  home.  Our  books 
suggest  problems  to  men  for  reconstructing  some  social  system 
in  which  the  calm  that  belongs  to  art  may  be  found  at  last :  but 
such  books  should  not  be  in  your  hands  ;  they  are  not  for  the 
innocence  and  youth  of  women,  as  yet  unchanged  by  the  sys- 
tems which  exist."  And  the  next  day  you  brought  me  Tasso's 
great  poem,  the  Gentsalemme  Liberata,  and  said,  smiling  :  ''Art 
in  its  calm  is  here." 

You  remember  that  I  was  then  at  Sorrento  by  the  order  of 
my  physician.  Never  shall  I  forget  the  soft  autumn  day  when 
I  sat  amongst  the  lonely  rocklets  to  the  left  of  the  town,  the 
sea  before  me,  with  scarce  a  ripple  ;  my  very  heart  steeped  in 
the  melodies  of  that  poem,  so  marvellous  for  a  strength  dis- 
guised in  sweetness,  and  for  a  symmetry  in  which  eacn  propor- 
tion blends  into  the  -other  with  tnt  perfectness  of  a  Grecian 
statue.  The  whole  place  seemed  co  me  filled  with  the  pres- 
ence of  the  poet  to  whom  it  had  given  birth.  Certainly  the 
reading  of  that  poem  formed  an  era  in  my  existence  .;  to  this 
day  I  cannot  acknowledge  the  faults  or  weaknesses  which  your 
criticisms  pointed  out — I  believe  because  they  are  in  unison 
with  my  own  nature,  which  yearns  for  harmony,  and,  finding 
that  rests  contented.  I  shrink  from  violent  contrasts,  and  can 
discover  nothing  tame  and  insipid  in  a  continuance  of  sweet- 
jiess  and  serenity.  But  it  was  not  till  after  I  had  read  La  Geru- 


THE    PARISIANS.  47 

again  and  again,  and  then  sat  and  brooded  over  it, 
that  I  recognized  the  main  charm  of  the  poem  in  the  religion 
which  clings  to  it  as  the  perfume  clings  to  a  flower — a  religion 
sometimes  melancholy,  but  never  to  me  sad.  Hope  always 
pervades  it.  Surely  if,  as  you  said,  "  Hope  is  twin-born  witii 
art,"  it  is  because  art  at  its  highest  blends  itself  unconsciously 
with  religion,  and  proclaims  its  affinity  with  hope  by  its  faith 
in  some  future  good  more  perfect  than  it  has  realized  in  the  past. 

Be  this  as  it  may,  it  was  in  this  poem,  so  pre-eminently 
Christian,  that  I  found  the  something  which  I  missed  and 
craved  for  in  modern  French  masterpieces,  even  yours — a 
something  spiritual,  speaking  to  my  own  soul,  calling  it  rorth  ; 
distinguishing  it  as  an  essence  apart  from  mere  human  reason  ; 
soothing,  even  when  it  excited  ;  making  earth  nearer  to 
heaven.  And  when  I  ran  on  in  this  strain  to  you  after  my  own 
wild  fashion,  you  took  my  head  between  your  hands  and  kissed 
me,  and  said  :  "  Happy  are  those  who  believe  !  Long-may 
that  happiness  be  thine  !  "  Why  did  I  not  feel  in  Dante  the 
Christian  charm  that  I  felt  in  Tasso  ?  Dante  in  your  eyes,  as 
in  those  of  most  judges,  is  infinitely  the  greater  genius,  but  re- 
flected on  the  dark  stream  of  that  genius  the  stars  are  so 
troubled,  the  heavens  so  threatening. 

Just  as  my  year  of  holiday  was  expiring,  I  turned  to  English 
literature  ;  and  Shakspeare,  of  course  was  the  first  English 
poet  put  into  my  hands.  It  proves  how  childlike  my  mind 
still  was,  that  my  earliest  sensation  in  reading  him  was  that  ot 
disappointment.  It  was  not  only  that,  despite  my  familiarity 
with  English  (thanks  chiefly  to  the  care  of  him  whom  I  call  my 
second  father),  there  is  much  in  the  metaphorical  diction  of 
Shakspeare  which  I  failed  to  comprehend  ;  but  he  seemed  to 
me  so  far  like  the  modern  French  writers  who  affect  to  have 
found  inspiration  in  his  muse,  that  he  obtrudes  images  of  pain 
and  suffering  without  cause  or  motive  sufficiently  clear  to  or- 
dinary understandings,  as  I  had  taught  myself  to  think  it  ought 
to  be  in  the  drama. 

He  make's  fate  so  cruel  that  we  lose  sight  of  the  mild  deity 
behind  her.  Compare,  in  this,  Corneille's  "  Polyeucte  "  with  the 
"'Hamlet."  In  the  first  an  equal  calamity  befalls  the  good, 
but  in  their  calamity  they  are  blessed.  The  death  of  the 
martyr  is  the  triumph  of  his  creed.  But  when  we  have  put 
down  the  English  tragedy — when  Hamlet  and  Ophelia  arc 
confounded  in  death  with  Polonius  and  the  fratricidal  king, 
we  see  not  what  good  end  for  humanity  is  achieved.  '  The 
passages  that  fasten  on  our  memory  do  not  make  us  happier 


48  THE    PARISIANS. 

and  holier;  they  suggest  but  terrible  problems,  to  which 
give  us  no  solution. 

In  the  "  Horaces  "  of  Corneille  there  are  fierce  contests,  rude 
passions,  tears  drawn  from  some  of  the  bitterest  sources  of 
human  pity  ;  but  then  through  all  stands  out,  large  and  visible 
to  the  eyes  of  all  spectators,  the  great  ideal  of  devoted  patriotism. 
How  much  of  all  that  has  been  grandest  in  the  life  of  France, 
redeeming  even  its  worst  crimes  of  revolution  in  the  love  of 
country,  has  had  its  origin  in  the  "  Horaces  "  of  Corneille? 
But  I  doubt  if  the  fates  of  Coriolanus,  and  Caesar,  and  Brutus, 
and  Antony,  in  the  giant  tragedies  of  Shakespeare,  have  made 
Englishmen  more  willing  to  die  for  England.  In  fine,  it  was 
long  before — I  will  not  say  I  understood  or  rightly  appreciated 
Shakespeare,  for  no  Englishman  would  admit  that  I  or  even 
you  could  ever  do  so — but  before  I  could  recognize  the  justice 
of  the  place  his  country  claims  for  him  as  the  genius  without 
an  equal  in  the  literature  of  Europe.  Meanwhile  the  ardor  I 
had  put  into  study,  and  the  wear  and  tear  of  the  emotions 
which  the  study  called  forth,  made  themselves  felt  in  a  return 
of  my  former  illness,  with  symptoms  still  more  alarming  ;  and 
when  the  year  was  out  I  was  ordained  to  rest  for  perhaps 
another  year  before  I  could  sing  in  public,  still  less  appear  on 
the  stage.  How  I  rejoiced  when  I  heard  that  fiat  !  for  I 
emerged  from  that  year  of  study  with  a  heart  utterly  estranged 
from  the  profession  in  which  I  had  centred  my  hopes  before — . 
Yes,  Eulalie,  you  had  bid  me  accomplish  myself  for  the  arts  of 
utterance  by  the  study  of  arts  in  which  thoughts  originate  the 
words  they  employ  ;  and  in  doing  so,  I  had  changed  myself 
into  another  being.  I  was  forbidden  all  fatigue  of  mind  ;  my 
books  were  banished,  but  not  the  new  self  which  the  books  had 
formed.  Recovering  slowly  through  the  summer,  I  came 

hither  two  months  since,  ostensibly  for  the  advice  of  Dr.  C , 

but  really  in  the  desire  to  commune   with  my  own  heart,  and 
be  still. 

And  now  I  have  poured  forth  that  heart  to  you — would  you 
persuade  me  still  to  be  a  singer  ?  If  you  do,  remember  at  least 
how  jealous  and  absorbing  the  art  of  the  singer  and  of  the  ac- 
tress is.  How  completely  I  must  surrender  myself  to  it,  and 
live  among  books,  or  among  dreams,  no  more.  Can  I  be  any- 
thing else  but  singer?  And  if  not,  should  I  be  contented 
merely  to  read  and  to  dream  ? 

I  must  confide  to  you  one  ambition  which  during  the  lazy 
Italian  summer  took  possession  of  me  ;  I  must  tell  you  the 
ambition,  and  add  that  I  have  renounced  it  as  a  vain  one.  I 


THE    PARISIANS.  49 

had  hoped  that  I  could  compose,  T  mean  in  music.  I  was 
pleased  with  some  things  I  did  ;  they  expressed  in  music  what 
I  could  not  express  in  words  ;  and  one  secret  object  in  coming 
here  was  to  submit  them  to  the  great  Maestro,  He  listened  to 
them  patiently  ;  he  complimented  me  on  my  accuracy  in  the 
mechanical  laws  of  composition  ;  he  even  said  that  my  favorite 
airs  were  "  touchants  et  gracieux." 

And  so  he  would  have  left  me,  but  I  stopped  him  timidly, 
and  said,  "  Tell  me  frankly,  do  you  think  that  with  time  and 
study  I  could  compose  music  such  as  singers  equal  to  myself 
would  sing  to  ?  " 

"  You  mean  as  a  professional  composer  ?  " 

"  Well,  yes." 

"And  to  the  abandonment  of  your  vocation  as  a  singer?" 

"Yes." 

"  My  dear  child,  I  should  be  your  worst  enemy  if  I  encouraged 
such  a  notion  ;  cling  to  the  career  in  which  you  can  be  greatest ; 
gain  but  health,  and  I  wager  my  reputation  on  your  glorious 
success  on  the  stage.  What  can  you  be  as  a  composer  ?  You 
will  set  pretty  music  to  pretty  words,  and  will  be  sung  in  draw- 
ing-rooms with  the  fame  a  little  more  or  less  that  generally  at- 
tends the  compositions  of  female  amateurs.  Aim  at  something 
higher,  as  I  know  you  would  do,  and  you  will  not  succeed.  Is 
there  any  instance  in  modern  times,  perhaps  in  any  times,  of  a 
female  composer  who  attains  even  to  the  eminence  of  a  third- 
rate  opera  writer  ?  Composition  in  letters  may  be  of  no  sex. 
In  that  Madame  Dudevant  and  your  friend  Madame  de  Grant- 
mesnil  can  beat  most  men  ;  but  the  genius  of  musical  compo- 
sition is  homme,  and  accept  it  as  a  compliment  when  I  say  that 
you  are  essentially  femme." 

He  left  me,  of  course,  mortified  and  humbled  ;  but  I  feel 
he  is  right  as  regards  myself,  though  whether  in  his  deprecia- 
tion of  our  whole  sex  I  cannot  say.  But  as  this  hope  has  left 
me,  I  have  become  more  disquieted,  still  more  restless.  Counsel 
me,  dear  Eulalie  ;  counsel,  and,  if  possible,  comfort  me, 

ISAURA. 

From  the  Same  to  the  Same. 

No  letter  from  you  yet,  and  I  have  left  you  in  peace  for  ten 
days.  How  do  you  think  I  have  spent  them  ?  The  Maestro 
called  on  us  with  M.  Savarin,  to  insist  on  our  accompanying 
them  on  a  round  of  the  theatres,  I  had  not  been  to  one  since 
my  arrival.  I  divined  that  the  kind-hearted  composer  had  a 
motive  in  this  invitation.  He  thought  that  in  witnessing  the 


50  THE    PARISIAN? 

applauses  bestowed  on  actors,  and  sharing  in  the  fascination 
in  which  the  theatrical  illusion  holds  an  audience,  my  old  pas- 
sion for  the  stage,  and  with  it  the  longing  for  an  artiste 's  fame, 
would  revive. 

In  my  heart  I  wished  that  his  expectations  might  be  realized. 
Well  for  me  if  I  could  once  more  concentrate  all  my  aspirations 
on  a  prize  within  my  reach  ! 

We  went  first  to  see  a  comedy  greatly  in  vogue,  and  the 
author  thoroughly  understands  the  French  stage  of  our  day, 
The  acting  was  excellent  in  its  way.  The  next  night  we  went 
to  the  Qdeon,  a  romantic  melodrama  in  six  acts,  and  I  kno»v 
not  how  many  tableaux.  I  found  no  fault  with  the  acting 
there.  I  do  not  give  you  the  rest  of  our  programme.  We 
visited  all  the  principal  theatres,  reserving  the  opera  and 

Madame  S for  the  last.  Before  I  speak  of  the  opera,  let 

me  say  a  word  or  two  on  the  plays. 

There  is  no  country  in  which  the  theatre  has  so  great  a  hold 
on  the  public  as  in  France  ;  no  country  in  which  the  successful 
dramatist  has  so  high  a  fame  ;  no  country  perhaps  in  which 
the  state  of  the  stage  so  faithfully  represents  the  moral  and 
intellectual  condition  of  the  people.  I  say  this_not,  of  course, 
from  my  experience  of  countries  which  I  have  not  visited,  but 
from  all  I  hear  of  the  stage  in  Germany  and  in  England. 

The  impression  left  on  my  mind  by  the  performance  I  wit- 
nessed is,  that  the  French  people  are  becoming  dwarfed.  The 
comedies  that  please  them  are  but  pleasant  caricatures  of  petty 
sections  in  a  corrupt  society.  They  contain  no  large  types  of 
human  nature  ;  their  witticisms  convey  no  luminous  flashes  of 
truth  ;  their  sentiment  is  not  pure  and  noble,  it  is  a  sickly  and 
false  perversion  of  the  impure  and  ignoble  into  travesties  of 
the  pure  and  noble. 

Their  melodramas  cannot  be  classed  as  literature  ;  all  that 
really  remains  of  the  old  French  genius  is  its  vaudeville. 

Great  dramatists  create  great  parts.  One  great  part,  such  :-.s 
a  Rachel  would  gladly  have  accepted,  I  have  not  seen  in  the 
dramas  of  the  young  generation. 

High  art  has  taken  refuge  in  the  opera;  but  that  is  not 
French  opera.  I  do  not  complain  so  much  that  French  taste 
is  less  refined.  I  complain  that  French  intellect  is  lowered. 
The  descent  from  Polyeucte  to  Ruy  Bias  is  great,  not  so  mucii 
in  the  poetry  of  form  as  in  the  elevation  of  thought  ;  but  the 
descent  from  Ruy  Bias  to  the -best  drama  now  produced  is  out 
of  poetry  altogether,  and  into  those  flats  of  prose  which  give 
not  even  the  glimpse  of  a  mountain -top. 


THE    PARISIANS.  5-1 

But  now  to  the  opera.  S in  Norma  !  The  house  was 

crowded,  and  its  enthusiasm  as  loud  as  it  was  genuine.  You 

tell  me  that  S never  rivalled  Pasta,  but  certainly  her  Norma 

is  a  great  performance.  Pier  voice  has  lost  less  of  its  freshness 
than  I  had  been  told,  and  what  is  lost  of  it  her  practised  man- 
agement conceals  or  carries  off. 

The  Maestro  was  quite  right  :  I  could  never  vie  with  her  in 
her  own  line  ;  but  conceited  and  vain  as  I  may  seem  even  to 
you  in  saying  so,  I  feel  in  my  own  line  that  I  could  command 
as  large  an  applause,  of  course  taking  into  account  my  brief- 
lived  advantage  of  youth.  Her  acting,  apart  from  her  voice, 
does  not  please  me.  It  seems  to  me  to  want  intelligence  of 
the  subtler  feelings,  the  undercurrent  of  emotion  which  con- 
stitutes the  chief  beauty  of  the  situation  and  the  character. 
Am  I  jealous  when  I  say  this?  Read  on  and  judge. 

On  our  return  that  night,  when  I  had  seen  the  Venosta  to 
bed,  I  went  into  my  own  room,  opened  the  window,  and  looked 
out.  A  lovely  night,  mild  as  in  spring  at  Florence  ;  the  moon 
at  her  full,  and  the  stars  looking  so  calm  and  so  high  beyond 
our  reach  of  their  tranquillity.  The  evergreens  in  the  gardens 
of  the  villas  around  me  silvered  over,  and  the  summer  boughs, 
not  yet  clothed  with  leaves,  were  scarcely  visible  amid  the 
changeless  smile  of  the  laurels.  At  the  distance  lay  Paris, 
only  to  be  known  by  its  innumerable  lights.  And  then  I  said 
to  myself  : 

"  No,  I  cannot  be  an  actress  ;  I  cannot  resign  my  real  self 
for  that  vamped-up  hypocrite  before  the  lamps.  Out  on  those 
stage-robes  and  painted  cheeks  !  Out  on  that  simulated  utter- 
ance of  sentiments  learned  by  rote  and  practised  before  the 
looking-glass  till  every  gesture  has  its  drill  !  " 

Then  I  gazed  on  those  stars  which  provoke  our  questionings, 
and  return  no  answer,  till  my  heart  grew  full — so  full — and  I 
bowed  my  head  and  wept  like  a  child. 

From  the  Same  to  the  Same. 

And  still  no  letter  from  you  !  I  see  in'the  journals  that  you 
have  left  Nice.  Is  it  that  you  are  too  absorbed  in  your  work 
to  have  leisure  to  write  to  me  ?  I  know  you  are  not  ill  ;  for  if 
you  were,  all  Paris  would  know  of  it.  All  Europe  has  an 
interest  in  your  health.  Positively  I  will  write  to  you  no  more 
till  a  word  from  yourself  bids  rne  do  so. 

I  fear  I  must  give  up  my  solitary  walks  in  the  Bois  de 
Boulogne  :  they  were  very  dear  to  me,  partly  because  the  quiet 
path  to  which  I  confined  myself  was  that  to  which  you  directed 


52  THE     PARISIANS. 

me  as  the  one  you  habitually  selected  when  at  Paris,  and  in 
which  you  had  brooded  over  and  revolved  the  loveliest  of  your 
romances  ;  and  partly  because  it  was  there  that,  catching,  alas  ! 
not  inspiration,  but  enthusiasm,  from  the  genius  that  had  hal- 
lowed the  place,  and  dreaming  I  might  originate  music,  I  nursed 
my  own  aspirations  and  murmured  my  own  airs.  And  though 
so  close  to  that  world  of  Paris  to  which  all  artists  must  appeal 
for  judgment  or  audience,  the  spot  was  so  undisturbed,  so 
sequestered.  But  of  late  that  path  has  lost  its  solitude,  and 
therefore  its  charm. 

Six  days  ago  the  first  person  I  encountered  in  my  walk  was 
a  man  whom  I  did  not  then  heed.  He  seemed  in  thought,  or 
rather  in  revery,  like  myself  ;  we  passed  each  other  twice  or 
thrice,  and  I  did  not  notice  whether  he  was  young  or  old,  tall 
or  short  ;  but  he  came  the  next  day,  and  a  third  day,  and  then  I 
saw  that  he  was  young,  and,  in  so  regarding  him,  his  eyes  became 
fixed  on  mine.  The  fourth  day  he  did  not  come,  but  two  other 
men  came,  and  the  look  of  one  was  inquisitive  and  offensive. 
They  sat  themselves  down  on  a  bench  in  the  walk,  and  though  I 
did  not  seem  to  notice  them  I  hastened  home  ;  and  the  next  day, 
in  talking  with  our  kind  Madame  Savarin,  and  alluding  to  these 
quiet  walks  of  mine,  she  hinted,  with  the  delicacy  which  is  her 
characteristic,  that  the  customs  of  Paris  did  not  allow  demoi- 
selles comme  il  faut  to  walk  alone  even  in  the  most  sequestered 
paths  of  the  Bois. 

I  begin  now  to  comprehend  your  disdain  of  customs  which 
impose  chains  so  idly  galling  on  the  liberty  of  our  sex. 

We  dined  with  the  Savarins  last  evening  ;  what  a  joyous 
nature  he  has  !  Not  reading  Latin,  I  only  know  Horace  by 
translations,  which  I  am  told  are  bad  ;  but  Savarin  seems  to 
me  a  sort  of  half  Horace.  Horace  on  his  town-bred  side,  so 
playfully  well-bred,  so  good-humored  in  his  philosophy,  so 
affectionate  to  friends,  and  so  biting  to  foes.  But  certainly 
Savarin  could  not  have  lived  in  a  country  farm  upon  endives 
and  mallows.  He  is  town-bred  and  Parisian,  jusqu'au  bout  des 
oiigles.  How  he  admires  you,  and  how  I  love  him  for  it  ! 
Only  in  one  thing  he  disappoints  me  there.  It  is  your  style 
that  he  chiefly  praises  :  certainly  that  style  is  matchless  ;  but 
style  is  only  the  clothing  of  thought,  and  to  praise  your  style 
seems  to  me  almost  as  invidious  as  the  compliment  to  some 
perfect  beauty,  not  on  her  form  and  face,  but  on  her  taste  and 
dress. 

We  met  at  dinner  an  American  and  his  wife — a  Colonel  and 
Mrs.  Morley ;  she  is  delicately  handsome,  as  the  American 


THE    PARISIANS.  53 

women  I  have  seen  generally  are,  and  with  that  frank  vivacity 
of  manner  which  distinguishes  them  from  English  women. 
She  seemed  to  take  a  fancy  to  me,  and  we  soon  grew  very 
good  friends. 

She  is  the  first  advocate  I  have  met,  except  yourself,  of  that 
doctrine  upon  the  Rights  of  Women,  of  which  one  reads  more 
in  the  journals  than  one  hears  discussed  in  salons. 

Naturally  enough  I  felt  great  interest  in  that  subject,  more 
especially  since  my  rambles  in  the  Bois  were  forbidden  ;  and 
as  long  as  she  declaimed  on  the  hard  fate  of  the  women  who, 
feeling  within  them  powers  that  struggle  for  air  and  light  be- 
yond the  close  precinct  of  household  duties,  find  themselves 
restricted  from  fair-rivalry  with  men  in  such  fields  of  knowl- 
edge and  toil  and  glory,  as  men  since  the  world  began  have 
appropriated  to  themselves,  I  need  not  say  that  I  went  with 
her  cordially:  you  can  guess  that  by  my  former  letters.  But 
when  she  entered  into  the  detailed  catalogue  of  our  exact 
wrongs  and  our  exact  fights,  I  felt  all  the  pusillanimity  of  my 
sex,  and  shrank  back  in  terror. 

Her  husband,  joining  us  when  she  was  in  full  tide  of  elo* 
qence,  smiled  at  me  with  a  kind  of  saturnine  mirth.  "  Made- 
moiselle, don't  believe  a  word  she  says  ;  it  is  only  tall  talk  ! 
In  America  the  women  are  absolute  tyrants,  and  it  is  I  who, 
in  concert  with  my  oppressed  countrymen,  am  going  in  for  a 
platform  agitation  to  restore  the  Rights  of  Men." 

Upon  this  there  was  a  lively  battle  of  words  between  the 
spouses,  in  which,  I  must  own,  I  thought  the  lady  was  decidedly 
worsted. 

No,  Eulalie,  I  see  nothing  in  these  schemes  for  altering  our 
relations  towards  the  other  sex  which  would  improve  our  con- 
dition. The  inequalities  we  suffer  are  not  imposed  by  law, 
not  even  by  convention  ;  they  are  imposed  by  nature. 

Eulalie,  you  have  had  an  experience  unknown  to  me  ;  you 
have  loved.  In  that  day  did  you — you,  round  whom  poets 
and  sages  and  statesmen  gather,  listening  to  your  words  as  to 
an  oracle — did  you  feel  that  your  pride  of  genius  had  gone  out 
from  you  ;  that  your  ambition  lived  in  him  whom  you  loved  ; 
that  his  smile  was  more  to  you  than  the  applause  of  the  world? 

I  feel  as  if  love  in  a  woman  must  destroy  her  rights  of 
equality  ;  that  it  gives  to  her  a  sovereign  even  in  one  who 
would  be  inferior  to  herself  if  hep  love  did  not  glorify  and 
crown  him.  Ah  !  if  I  could  but  merge  this  terrible  egotism 
which  oppresses  me,  into  the  being  of  some  one  who  is  what  I 
would  wish  to  be  were  I  man  !  I  would  not  ask  him  to  achieve 


54  THE    PARISIANS. 

fame.  Enough  if  I  felt  that  he  was  worthy  of  it,  and  happier 
niethinks  to  console  him  when  he  failed  than  to  triumph  with 
him  when  he  won.  Tell  me,  have  you  felt  this?  When  you 
loved  did  you  stoop  as  to  a  slave,  or  did  you  bow  down  as  to  a 
master  ? 

From  Madame  de  Grantmesnil  to  Isaura  Cicogna. 

Chlre  enfant:  All  your  four  letters  have  reached  me  the 
same  day.  In  one  of  my  sudden  whims  I  set  off  with  a  few 
friends  on  a  rapid  tour  along  the  Riviera  to  Genoa,  thence  to 
Turin  on  to  Milan.  Not  knowing  where  we  should  rest  even 
for  a  day,  my  letters  were  not  forwarded. 

1  came  back  to  Nice  yesterday,  consoled  for  all  fatigues  in 
having  insured  that  accuracy  in  description  of  localities  which 
my  work  necessitates. 

You  are,  my  poor  child,  in  that  revolutionary  crisis  through 
which  genius  passes  in  youth  before  it  knows  its  own  self,  and 
longs  vaguely  to  do  or  to  be  a  something  other  than  it  has  done 
or  has  been  before.  For,  not  to  be  unjust  to  your  own  powers, 
genius  you  have — that  inborn  undefinable  essence,  including 
talent,  and  yet  distinct  from  it.  Genius  you  have,  but  genius 
unconcentrated,  undisciplined.  I  see,  though  you  are  too 
diffident  to  say  so  openly,  that  you  shrink  from  the  fame  of 
singer,  because,  fevered  by  your  reading,  you  would  fain  aspire 
to  the  thorny  crown  of  author.  I  echo  the  hard  saying  of  the 
Maestro,  I  should  be  your  worst  enemy  did  I  encourage  you  to 
forsake  a  career  in  which  a  dazzling  success  is  so  assured,  for 
one  in  which,  if  it  were  your  true  vocation,  you  would  not  ask 
whether  you  were  fit  for  it ;  you  would  be  impelled  to  it  by 
the  terrible  star  which  presides  over  the  birth  of  poets. 

Have  you,  who  are  so  naturally  observant,  and  of  late  have 
become  so  reflective,  never  remarked  that  authors,  however 
absorbed  in  their  own  craft,  do  not  wish  their  children  to  adopt 
it  ?  The  most  successful  author  is  perhaps  the  last  person  to 
whom  neophytes  should  come  for  encouragement.  This  I 
think  is  not  the  case  with  the  cultivators  of  the  sister  arts. 
The  painter,  the  sculptor,  the  musician,  seem  disposed  to  invite 
disciples  and  welcome  acolytes.  As  for  those  engaged  in  the 
practical  affairs  of  life,  fathers  mostly  wish  their  sons  to  be  as 
they  have  been. 

The  politician,  the  lawyer,  the  merchant,  each  says  to  his 
children,  "Follow  my  steps."  All  parents  in  practical  life 
would  at  least  agree  in  this,  they  would  not  wish  their  sons  to 
be  poets.  There  must  be  some  sound  cause  in  the  world's 


THE    PARISIANS.  55 

philosophy  for  this  general  concurrence  of  digression  from  a 
road  of  which  the  travellers  themselves  say  to  those  whom  they 
love  best,  "  Beware  !  " 

Rbmance    in    youth  is,  if  rightly  understood,  the  happiest 
nutriment  of  wisdom  in  after-years  ;  but  I  would  never  invite 
any  one  to  look  upon  the  romance  of  youth  as  a  thing 
"  To  case  in  periods  and  embalm  in  ink." 

Enfant,  have  you  need  of  a  publisher  to  create  romance  ?  Is 
it  not  in  yourself  ?  Do  not  imagine  that  genius  requires  for 
its  enjoyment  the  scratch  of  the  pen  and  the  types  of  the  printer. 
Do  not  suppose  that  the  poet,  the  romancier,  is  most  poetic, 
most  romantic,  when  he  is  striving,  struggling,  laboring,  to 
check  the  rush  of  his  ideas,  and  materialize  the  images  which 
visit  him  as  souls  into  such  tangible  likenesses  of  flesh  and 
blood  that  the  highest  compliment  a  reader  can  bestow  on  them 
is  to  say  that  they  are  lifelike.  No  :  the  poet's  real  delight  is 
not  in  the  mechanism  of  composing  ;  the  best  ^part  of  that 
delight  is  in  the  sympathies  he  has  established  with  innumera- 
ble modifications  of  life  and  form,  and  art  and  nature — sympa- 
thies which  are  often  found  equally  keen  in  those  whohave  not 
the  same  gift  of  language.  The  poet  is  but  the  interpreter. 
What  of  ?  Truths  in  the  hearts  of  others.  He  utters  what 
they  feel.  Is  the  joy  in  the  utterance  ?  Nay,  it  is  in  the  feel- 
ing itself.  So,  my  dear,  dark-bright  child  of  song,  when  I 
bade  thee  open,  out  of  the  beaten  thoroughfare,  paths  into  the 
meads  and  river-banks  at  either  side  of  the  formal  hedgerows, 
rightly  dost  thou  add  that  I  enjoined  thee  to  make  thine  art 
thy  companion.  In  the  culture  of  that  art  for  which  you  are 
so  eminently  gifted,  you  will  find  the  ideal  life  ever  beside  the 
real.  Are  you  not  ashamed  to  tell  me  that  in  that  art  you  do 
but  utter  the  thoughts  of  others  ?  You  utter  them  in  music  ; 
through  the  music  you  not  only  give  to  the  thoughts  a  new 
character,  but  you  make  them  reproductive  of  fresh  thoughts 
in  your  audience. 

You  said  very  truly  that  you  found  in  composing  you  could 
put  into  music  thoughts  which  you  could  not  put  into  words. 
That  is  the  peculiar  distinction  of  music.  No  genuine  musician 
can  explain  in^vords  exactly  what  he  means  to  convey  in  his 
music. 

How  little  a  libretto  interprets  an  opera  ;  how  little  we  care 
even  to  read  it  !  It  is  the  music  that  speaks  to  us  ;  and  how  ? 
Through  the  human  voice.  We  do  not  notice  how  poor  are  the 
words  which  the  voice  warbles.  It  is  the  voice  itself  interpret- 
ing the  soul  of  the  musician  which  enchants  and  enthrals  us. 


56  THE    PARISIANS. 

And  you  who  have  that  voice  pretend  to  despise  the  gift. 
What !  Despise  the  power  of  communicating  delight  !  The 
power  that  we  authors  envy,  and  rarely,  if  ever,  can  we  give 
delight  with  so  little  alloy  as  the  singer. 

And  when  an  audience  disperses,  can  you  guess  what  griefs 
the  singer  may  have  comforted  ?  What  hard  hearts  he  may 
have  softened  ?  What  high  thoughts  he  may  have  awakened  ? 

You  say,  "Out  on  the  vamped-up  hypocrite!  Out  on  the 
stage-robes  and  painted  cheeks  !  " 

1  say,  "Out  on  the  morbid  spirit  which  so  cynically  regards 
the  mere  details  by  which  a  whole  effect  on  the  minds  and 
hearts  and  souls  of  races  and  nations  can  be  produced  !  " 

There,  have  1  scolded  you  sufficiently  ?  I  should  scold  you 
more,  if  1  did  not  see  in  the  affluence  of  your  youth  and  your 
intellect  the  cause  of  your  restlessness.  Riches  are  always 
restless.  It  is  only  to  poverty  that  the  gods  give  content. 

You  question  me  about  love  ;  you  ask  if  I  have  ever  bowed 
to  a  master,  ever  merged  my  life  in  another's  ;  expect  no  answer 
on  this  from  me.  Circe  herself  could  give  no  answer  to  the 
simplest  maid,  who,  never  having  loved,  asks,  "What  is  love  ?  " 

In  the  history  of  the  passions  each  human  heart  is  a  world 
in  itself ;  its  experience  profits  no  others.  In  no  two  lives  does 
love  play  the  same  part  or  bequeath  the  same  record. 

I  know  not  whether  I  am  glad  or  sorry  that  the  word  "  love  " 
now  falls  on  my  ear  with  a  sound  as  slight  and  as  faint  as  the 
dropping  of  a  leaf  in  autumn  may  fall  on  thine. 

I  volunteer  but  this  lesson,  the  wisest  I  can  give,  if  thou 
canst  understand  it  :  as  I  bade  thee  take  art  into  thy  life,  so 
learn  to  look  on  life  itself  as  an  art.  Thou  couldst  discover 
the  charm  in  Tasso  ;  thou  couldst  perceive  that  the  requisite 
of  all  art,  that  which  pleases,  is  in  the  harmony  of  proportion. 
We  lose  sight  of  beauty  if  we  exaggerate  the  feature  most 
beautiful. 

Love  proportioned,  adorns  the  homeliest  existence  ;  love  dis- 
proportioned,  deforms  the  fairest. 

Alas  !  Wilt  thou  remember  this  warning  when  the  time 
comes  in  which  it  mav  be  needed  ? 

E G . 


THE    PARISIANS.  57 

BOOK   II. 


CHAPTER  I. 

IT  is  several  weeks  after  the  date  of  the  last  chapter ;  the 
lime-trees  in  the  Tuileries  are  clothed  in  green. 

In  a  somewhat  spacious  apartment  on  the  ground-floor  in  the 
quiet  locality  of  the  Rue  d'Anjou  a  man  was  seated,  very  still, 
and  evidently  absorbed  in  deep  thought,  before  a  wriiing-table 
placed  close  to  the  window. 

Seen  thus  t^iere  was  an  expression  of  great  power,  both  of 
intellect  and  of  character,  in  a  face  which,  in  ordinary  social 
commune,  might  rather  be  noticeable  for  an  aspect  of  hardy 
frankness,  suiting  well  with  the  clear-cut,  handsome  profile  and 
the  rich,  dark  auburn  hair,  waving  carelessly  over  one  of  those 
broad,  open  foreheads  which,  according  to  an  old  writer,  seem 
the  "  frontispiece  of  a  temple  dedicated  to  Honor." 

The  forehead,  indeed,  was  the  man's  most  remarkable  fea- 
ture. It  could  not  but  prepossess  the  beholder.  When,  in 
private  theatricals,  he  had  need  to  alter  the  character  of  his 
countenance,  he  did  it  effectually,  merely  by  forcing  down  his 
hair  till  it  reached  his  eyebrows.  He  no  longer  then  looked 
like  the  same  man. 

The  person  I  describe  has  been  already  introduced  to  the 
reader  as  Graham  Vane.  But  perhaps  this  is  the  fit  occasion 
to  enter  into  some  such  details  as  to  his  parentage  and  position 
as  may  make  the  introduction  more  satisfactory  and  complete. 

His  father,  the  representative  of  a  very  ancient  family,  came 
into  possession,  after  a  long  minority,  of  what  may  be  called  a 
fair  squire's  estate,  and  about  half  a  million  in  moneyed  invest- 
ments, inherited  on  the  female  side.  Both  land  and  money 
were  absolutely  at  his  disposal,  unencumbered  by  entail  or  set- 
tlement. He  was  a  man  of  a  brilliant,  irregular  genius,  of 
princely  generosity,  of  splendid  taste,  of  a  gorgeous  kind  of 
pride  closely  allied  to  a  masculine  kind  of  vanity.  As  soon  as 
he  was  of  age  he  began  to  build,  converting  his  squire's  hall 
into  a  ducal  palace.  He  then  stoqd  for^  the  county  ;  and  in 
days  before  the  first  Reform  Bill,  when  a  county  election  was 
the  estate  of  a  candidate  what  a  long  war  is  to  the  debt  of  a 
nation.  He  won  the  election  ;  he  obtained  early  successes  in 
Parliament.  It  was  said  by  good  authorities  in  pojitical  circles 
that,  if  he  chose,  he  might  aspire  to  lead  his  party,  and  ulti- 
mately to  hold  the  first  rank  in  the  government  of  his  country. 


58  <THE    PARISIANS. 

That  may  or  may  not  be  true  ;  but  certainly  he  did  not 
choose  to  take  the  trouble  necessary  for  such  an  ambition.  He 
was  too  fond  of  pleasure,  of  luxury,  of  pomp.  He  kept  a 
famous  stud  of  racers  and  hunters.  He  was  a  munificent  patron 
of  art.  His  establishments,  his  entertainments,  were  on  a  par 
witli  those  of  the  great  noble  who  represented  the  loftiest  (Mr. 
Vane  would  not  own  it  to  be  the  eldest)  branch  of  his  genea- 
logical tree. 

He  became  indifferent  to  political  contests,  indolent  in  his 
attendance  at  the  House,  speaking  seldom,  not  at  great  length 
nor  with  much  preparation,  but  with  power  and  fire,  originality 
and  genius  ;  so  that  he  was  not  only  effective  as  an  orator,  but, 
combining  with  eloquence  advantages  of  birth,  person,  station, 
the  reputation  of  patriotic  independence,  and  genial  attributes 
of  character,  he  was  an  authority  of  weight  in  the  scales  of  party. 

This  gentlemen,  at  the  age  of  forty,  married  the  dowerless 
daughter  of  a  poor  but  distinguished  naval  officer,  of  noble  fam- 
ily, first  cousin  to  the  Duke  of  Alton. 

He  settled  on  her  a  suitable  jointure,  but  declined  to  tie  up 
any  portion  of  his  property  for  the  benefit  of  children  by  the 
marriage.  He  declared  that  so  much  of  his  fortune  was  invested 
either  in  mines,  the  produce  of  which  was  extremely  fluctuating, 
or  in  various  funds,  over  rapid  transfers  in  which  it  was  his 
amusement  and  his  interest  to  have  control,  unchecked  by  ref- 
erence to  trustees,  that  entails  and  settlements  on  children  were 
an  inconvenience  he  declined  to  incur. 

Besides,  he  held  notions  of  his  own  as  to  the  wisdom  of  keep- 
ing children  dependent  on  their  father.  "What  numbers  of 
young  men,"  said  he,  "  are  ruined  in  character  and  in  fortune 
by  knowing  that  when  their  father  dies  they  are  certain  of  the 
same  provision,  no  matter  how  they  displease  him  ;  and  in  the 
meanwhile  forestalling  that  provision  by  recourse  to  usurers." 
These  arguments  might  not  have  prevailed  over  the  bride's 
father  a  year  or  two  later,  when,  by  the  death  of  intervening 
kinsmen,  he  became  Duke  of  Alton  ;  but  in  his  then  circum- 
stances the  marriage  itself  was  so  much  beyond  the  expectations 
which  the  portionless  daughter  of  a  sea-captain  has  the  right  to 
form,  that  Mr.  Vane  A\ad  k  all  his  own  way,  and  he  remained 
absolute  master  of  his  whole  fortune,  save  of  that  part  of  his 
landed  estate  on  which  his  wife's  jointure  was  settled  ;  and  even 
from  this  encumbrance  he  was  very  soon  freed.  His  wife  died 
in  the  second- year  of  marriage,  leaving  an  only  son — Graham. 
He  grieved  for  her  loss  .with  all  the  passion  of  an  impression- 
able, ardent,  and  powerful  nature.  Then  for  a  while  he  sought 


THE    PARISIANS.  59 

distraction  to  his  sorrow  by  throwing  himself  into  public  life 
with  a  devoted  energy  lie  had  not  previously  displayed. 

His  speeches  served  to  bring  his  party  into  power,  and  he 
yielded,  though  reluctantly,  to  the  unanimous  demand  of  that 
party  that  he  should  accept  one  of  the  highest  offices  in  the  new 
Cabinet.  He  acquitted  himself  well  as  an  administrator,  but 
declared,  no  doubt  honestly,  that  he  felt  like  Sindbad  released 
from  the  old  man  on  his  back,  when,  a  year  or  two  afterwards, 
he  went  out  of  office  with  his  party.  No  persuasions  could  in- 
duce him  to  come  in  again  ;  nor  did  he  ever  again  take  a  very 
active  part  in  debate.  "  No,"  said  he,  "  I  was  born  to  the  free- 
dom of  a  private  gentleman  ;  intolerable  to  me  is  the  thraldom 
of  a  public  servant.  But  I  will  bring  up  my  son' so  that  he  may 
acquit  the  debt  which  I  decline  to  pay  to  my  country."  There 
he  kept  his  word.  Graham  had  been  carefully  educated  for 
public  life,  the  ambition  for  it  dinned  into  his  ear  from  child- 
hood. In  his  school-vacations  his  father  made  him  learn  and 
declaim  chosen  specimens  of  masculine  oratory  ;  engaged  an 
emineni  actor  to  give  him  lessons  in  elocution  ;  bade  him  fre- 
quent theatres,  and  study  there  the  effect  which  words  derive 
ftom  looks  and  gesture;  encouraged  him  to  take  part  himself 
in. private  theatricals.  To  all  this  the  boy  lent  his  mind  with 
delight.  He  had  the  orator's  inborn  temperament ;  quick,  yet 
imaginative,  and  loving  the  sport  of  rivalry  and  contest.  Being 
also,  in  his  boyish  years,  good-humored  and  joyous,  he  was  not 
more  a  favorite  with  the  masters  in  the  schoolroom  than  with 
the  boys  in  the  playground.  Leaving  Eton  at  seventeen,  he 
then  entered  at  Cambridge,  and  became,  in  his  first  term,  the 
most  popular  speaker  at  the  Union. 

But  his  father  cut  short  his  academical  career,  and  decided, 
for  reasons  of  his  own,  to  place  him  at  once  in  Diplomacy. 
He  was  attached  to  the  Embassy  at  Paris,  and  partook  of  the 
pleasures  and  dissipations  of  that  metropolis  too  keenly  to 
retail!  much  of  the  sterner  ambition  to  which  he  had  before 
devoted  himself.  Becoming  one  of  the  spoiled  darlings  of 
fashion,  there  was  great  danger  that  his  character  would  relax 
into  the  easy  grace  of  the  Epicurean,  when  all  such  loiterings 
in  the  Rose  Garden  were  brought  to  abrupt  close  by  a  rude 
and  terrible  change  in  his  fortunes. 

His  father  was  killed  by  a  fall  from  his  horse  in  hunting  ; 
and  when  his  affairs  were  investigated,  they  were  found  to  be 
hopelessly  involved  ;  apparently  the  assets  would  not  suffice 
for  the  debts.  The  elder  Vane  himself  was  probably  not 
aware  of  the  extent  of  his  liabilities.  He  had  never  wanted 


60  THE   PARISIANS. 

ready  money  to  the  last.  He  could  always  obtain  that  from  a 
money-lender,  or  from  the  sale  of  his  funded  investments. 
But  it  became  obvious,  on  examining  his  papers,  that  h^ 
knew  .at  least  how  impaired  would  be  the  heritage  he 
should  bequeath  to  a  son  whom  he  idolized.  For  that  reason 
he  had  given  Graham  a  profession  in  diplomacy,  and  for  that 
reason  he  had  privately  applied  to  the  Ministry  for  the  Vice- 
royalty  of  India,  in  the  event  of  its  speedy  vacancy.  He  was 
eminent  enough  not  to  anticipate  refusal,  and  with  economy 
in  that  lucrative  post  much  of  his  pecuniary  difficulties  might 
have  been  redeemed,  and  at  least  an  independent  provision 
secured  for  his  son. 

Graham,  like 'Alain  de  Rochebriant,  allowed  no  reproach  on 
his  father's  memory  ;  indeed,  with  more  reason  than  Alain,  for 
the  elder  Vane's  fortune  had  at  least  gone  on  no  mean  and 
frivolous  dissipation. 

It  had^,  lavished  itself  on  encouragement  to  art  ;  on  great 
objects  of  public  beneficence ;  on  public-spirited  aid  ot 
political  objects  ;  and  even  in  mere  selfish  enjoyments  there 
was  a  certain  grandeur  in  his  princely  hospitalities,  in  his 
munificent  generosity,  in  a  warm-hearted  carelessness  for 
money.  No  indulgence  in  petty  follies  or  degrading  vices 
aggravated  the  offence  of  the  magnificent  squanderer. 

"  Let  me  look  on  my  loss  of  fortune  as  a  gain  to  myself," 
said  Graham  manfully.  "  Had  I  been  a  rich  man,  my  ex- 
perience of  Paris  tells  me  that  I  should  most  likely  have 
been  a  very  idle  one.  Now  that  I  have  no  gold,  I  must  dig  in 
myself  for  iron." 

The  man  to  whom  he  said  this  was  an  uncle-in-law,  if  I  may 
use  that  phrase,  the  Right  Hon.  Richard  King,  popularly  styled 
"the  blameless  King." 

This  gentleman  had  married  the  sister  of  Graham's  mother, 
whose  loss  in  his  infancy  and  boyhood  she  had  tenderly  and 
anxiously  sought  to  supply.  It  is  impossible  to  conceive  a 
woman  more  fitted  to  invite  love  and  reverence  than  was  Lady 
Janet  King,  her  manners  were  so  sweet  and  gentle,  her  whole 
nature  so  elevated  and  pure. 

Her  father  had  succeeded  to  the  dukedom  when  she  married 
Mr.  King,  and  the  alliance  was  not  deemed  quite  suitable. 
Still  it  was  not  one  to  which  the  Duke  would  have  been  fairly 
justified  in  refusing  his  assent. 

Mr.  King  could  not,  indeed,  boast  of  noble  ancestry,  nor 
was  he  even  a  landed  proprietor  ;  but  he  was  a  not  undis- 
tinguished member  of  Parliament,  of  irreproachable  character, 


THE    PARISIANS.  6l 

and  ample  fortune  inherited  from  a  distant  kinsman,  who  had 
enriched  himself  as  a  merchant.  It  was  on  both  sides  a  mar- 
riage of  love. 

It  is  popularly  said  that  a  man  uplifts  a  wife  to  his  own 
rank  ;  it  as  often  happens  that  a  woman  uplifts  her  husband  to 
the  dignity  of  her  own  character.  Richard  King  rose  greatly 
in  public  estimation  after  his  marriage  with  Lady  Janet. 

She  united  to  a  sincere  piety  a  very  active  and  a  very  enlight- 
ened benevolence.  She  guided  his  ambition  aside  from  mere 
party  politics  into  subjects  of  social  and  religious  interest,  and 
in  devoting  himself  to  these  he  achieved  a  position  more  popu- 
lar and  more  respected  than  he  could  ever  have  won  in  the 
strife  of  party. 

When  the  government  of  which  the  elder  Vane  became  a 
leading  minister  was  formed,  it  was  considered  a  great  object 
to  secure  a  name  so  high  in  the  religious  world,  so  beloved  by 
the  working  classes,  as  that  of  Richard  King  ;  and  he  accepted 
one  of  those  places  which,  though  not  in  the  cabinet,  confers 
the  rank  of  privy  councillor. 

When  that  brief-lived  administration  ceased,  he  felt  the  same 
sensation  of  relief  that  Vane  had  felt,  and  came  to  the  same 
resolution  never  again  to  accept  office,  but  from  different  rea- 
sons, all  of  which  need  no.t  now  be  detailed.  Amongst  them, 
however,  certainly  this:  He 'was  exceedingly  sensitive  to 
opinion,  thin-skinned  as  to  abuse,  and  very  tenacious  of  the  re- 
spect due  to  his  peculiar  character  of  sanctity  and  philanthropy. 
He  writhed  under  every  newspaper  article  that  had  made  "  the 
blameless  King"  responsible  for  the  iniquities  of  the  govern- 
ment to  which  he  belonged.  In  the  loss  of  office  he  seemed 
to  recover  his  former  throne. 

Mr.  King  heard  Graham's  resolution  with  a  grave  approving 
smile,  and  his  interest  in  the  young  man  became  greatly  in- 
creased. He  devoted  himself  strenuously  to  the  object  of  sav- 
ing to  Graham  some  wrecks  of  his  paternal  fortunes,  and  having 
a  clear  head  and  great  experience  in  the  transaction  of  busi- 
ness, he  succeeded  beyond  the  most  sanguine  expectations 
formed  by  the  family  solicitor.  A  rich  manufacturer  was  found 
to  purchase  at  a  fancy  price  the  bulk  of  the  estate  with  the 
palatial  mansion,  which  the  estate  alone  could  never  have 
sufficed  to  maintain  with  suitable  establishments. 

So  that  when  all  debts  were  paid,  Graham  found  himself  in 
possession  of  a  clear  income  of  about  £$oo  a  year,  invested  in 
a  mortgage  secured  on  a  part  of  the  hereditary  lands,  on  which 
was  seated  an  old  hunting-lodge  bought  by  a  brewer. 


62  THE    PARISIANS. 

With  this  portion  of  the  property  Graham  parted  very  re- 
luctantly. It  was  situated  amidst  the  most  picturesque  scenery 
on  the  estate,  and  the  lodge  itself  was  a  remnant  of  the  original 
residence  of  his  ancestors  before  it  had  been  abandoned  for 
that  which,  built  in  the  reign  of  Elizabeth,  had  been  expanded 
into  a  Trentham-like  palace  by  the  last  owner. 

But  Mr.  King's  argument  reconciled  him  to  the  sacrifice. 
"  I  can  manage,"  said  the  prudent  adviser,  "  if  you  insist  on  it, 
to  retain  that  remnant  of  the  hereditary  estate  which  you  are  so 
loth  to  part  with.  But  how  ?  by  mortgaging  it  to  an  extent  that 
it  will  scarcely  leave  you  ^50  a  year  net  from  the  rents.  This 
is  not  all.  Your  mind  will  then  be  distracted  from  the  large 
object  of  a  career  to  the  small  object  of  retaining  a  few  family 
acres  ;  you  will  be  constantly  hampered  by  private  anxieties 
and  fears  :  you  could  do  nothing  for  the  benefit  of  those 
around  you  ;  could  not  repair  a  farmhouse  for  a  better  class 
of  tenant  ;  could  not  rebuild  a  laborer's  dilapidated  cottage. 
Give  up  an  idea  that  might  be  very  well  for  a  man  whose  sole 
ambition  was  to  remain  a.  squire,  however  beggarly.  Launch 
yourself  into  the  larger  world  of  metropolitan  life  with  energies 
wholly  unshackled,  a  mind  wholly  undisturbed,  and  secure  of 
an  income  which,  however  modest,  is  equal  to  that  of  most 
young  men  who  enter  that  world  as  your  equals." 

Graham  was  convinced,  and' yielded,  though  with  a  bitter 
pang.  It  is  hard  for  a  man  whose  fathers  have  lived  on  the 
soil  to  give  up  all  trace  of  their  whereabouts.  But  none  saw  in 
him  any  morbid  consciousness  of  change  of  fortune,  when,  a 
year  after  his  father's  death,  he  reassumed  his  place  in  society. 
If  before  courted  for  his  expectations,  he  was  still  courted  for 
himself  ;  by  many  of  the  great  who  had  loved  his  father,  per- 
haps even  courted  more. 

He  resigned  the  diplomatic  career,  not  merely  because  the 
rise  in  that  profession  is  slow,  and  in  the  intermediate  steps  the 
chances  of  distinction  are  slight  and  few,  but  more  because  he 
desired  to  cast  his  lot  in  the  home  country,  and  regarded  the 
courts  of  other  lands  as  exile. 

It  was  not  true,  however,  as  Lemercier  had  stated  on  report, 
that  he  lived  on  his  pen.  Curbing  all  his  old  extravagant 
tastes,  -£$oo  a  year  amply  supplied  his  wants.  But  he  had 
by  his  pen  gained  distinction,  and  created  great  belief  in 
his  abilities  for  a  public  career.  He  had  written  critical  arti- 
cles, read  with  much  praise,  in  periodicals  of  authority,  and 
had  published  one  or  two  essays  on  political  questions,  which 
had  created  yet  more  sensation.  It  was  only  the  graver  litera- 


THE    PARISIANS.  63 

ture,  connected  more  or  less  with  his  ultimate  object  of  a 
public  career,  in  which  he  had  thus  evinced  his  talents  of 
composition.  Such  writings  were  not  of  a  nature  to  bring  him 
much  money,  but  they  gave  him  a  definite  and  solid  station. 
In  the  old  time,  before  the  first  Reform  Bill,  his  reputation 
would  have  secured  him  at  once  a  seat  in  Parliament  ;  but  the 
ancient  nurseries  of  statesmen  are  gone,  and  their  place  is  not 
supplied. 

He  had  been  invited,  however,  to  stand  for  more  than  one 
large  and  populous  borough,  with  very  fair  prospects  of  suc- 
cess ;  and  whatever  the  expense,  Mr.  King  had  offered  to 
defray  it.  But  Graham  would  not  have  incurred  the  latter 
obligation  ;  and  when  he  learned  the  pledges  which  his  sup- 
porters would  have  exacted,  he  would  not  have  stood  if  suc- 
cess had  been  certain  and  the  cost  nothing.  "  I  cannot," 
he  said  to  his  friends,  "  go  into  the  consideration  of  what  is 
best  for  the  country  with  my  thoughts  manacled  ;  and  I  can- 
not be  both  representative  and  slave  of  the  greatest  ignorance 
of  the  greatest  number.  I  bide  my  time,  and  meanwhile  I 
prefer  to  write  as  I  please,  rather  than  vote  as  I  don't 
please." 

Three  years  went  by,  passed  chiefly  in  England,  partly  in 
travel ;  and  at  the  age  of  thirty,  Graham  Vane  was  still  one  of 
those  of  whom  admirers  say,  "  He  will  be  a  great  man  some 
day  ";  and  detractors  reply,  "  Some  day  seems  a  long  way  off." 

The  same  fastidiousness  which  had  operated  against  that 
entrance  into  Parliament  to  which  his  ambition  not  the  less 
steadily  adapted  itself,  had  kept  him  free  from  the  perils  of 
wedlock.  In  his  heart  he  yearned  for  love  and  domestic  life, 
but  he  had  hitherto  met  with  no  one  who  realized  the  ideal  he  had 
formed.  With  his  person,  his  accomplishments,  his  connections, 
and  his  repute,  he  might  have  made  many  an  advantageous 
marriage.  But  somehow  or  other  the  charm  vanished  from  a 
fair  face,  if  the  shadow  of  a  money-bag  fell  on  it  ;  on  the  other 
hand,  his  ambition  occupied  so  large  a  share  in  his  thoughts 
that  he  would  have  fled  in  time  from  the  temptation  of  a  mar- 
riage that  would  have  overweighted  him  beyond  the  chance  of 
rising.  Added  to  all,  he  desired  in  a  wife  an  intellect  that,  if 
not  equal  to  his  own,  could  become  so  by  sympathy;  a  union 
of  high  culture  and  noble  aspiration,  and  yet  of  loving  woman- 
ly sweetness  which  a  man  seldom  finds  out  of  books  ;  and 
when  he  does  find  it,  perhaps  it  does  not  wear  the  sort  of  face 
that  he  fancies.  Be  that  as  it  may,  Graham  was  still  unmar- 
ried and  heart-whole. 


64  THE    PARISIANS. 

And  now  a  new  change  in  his  life  befell  him.  Lady  Janet 
died  of  a  fever  contracted  in  her  habitual  rounds  of  charity 
among  the  houses  of  the  poor.  She  had  been  to  him  as  the 
most  tender  mother,  and  a  lovelier  soul  than  hers  never  alight- 
ed on  the  earth.  His  grief  was  intense  ;  but  what  was  her 
husband's  ?  One  of  those  griefs  that  kill. 

To  the  side  of  Richard  King  his  Janet  had  been  as  the 
guardian  angel.  His  love  for  her  was  almost  worship  ;  with 
her,  every  object  in  a  life  hitherto  so  active  and  useful  seemed 
gone.  He  evinced  no  noisy  passion  of  sorrow.  He  shut  him- 
self up,  and  refused  to  see  even  Graham,  But  after  some 
weeks  had  passed,  he  admitted  the  clergyman  in  whom,  on- 
spiritual  matters,  he  habitually  confided,  and  seemed  consoled 
by  the  visits  ;  then  he  sent  for  his  lawyer,  and  made  his  will ; 
after  which  he  allowed  Graham  to  call  on  him  daily,  on  the 
condition  that  there  should  be  no  reference  to  his  loss.  He 
spoke  to  the  young  man  on  other  subjects,  rather  drawing  him 
out  about  himself,  sounding  his  opinion  on  various  grave  mat- 
ters, watching  his  face  while  he  questioned,  as  if  seeking  to 
dive  into  his  heart,  and  sometimes  pathetically  sinking  into 
silence,  broken  but  by  sighs.  So  it  went  on  for  a  few  more 
Aveeks  ;  then  he  took  the  advice  of  his  physician  to  seek  change 
of  air  and  scene.  He  went  away  alone,  without  even  a  servant, 
not  leaving  word  where  he  had  gone..  After  a  little  while  he 
returned,  more  ailing,  more  broken  than  before.  One  morning 
he  was  found  insensible,  stricken  by  paralysis.  He  regained 
consciousness,  and  even  for  some  days  rallied  strength.  He 
might  have  recovered,  but  he  seemed  as  if  he  tacitly  refused 
to  live.  He  expired  at  last,  peacefully,  in  Graham's  arms. 

At  the  opening  of  his  will  it  was  found  that  he  had  left 
Graham  his  sole  heir  and  executor.  Deducting  government 
duties,  legacies  to  servants,  and  donations  to  public  charities, 
the  sum  thus  bequeathed  to  his  lost  wife's  nephew  was  two 
hundred  and  twenty  thousand  pounds. 

With  such  a  fortune,  opening  indeed  was  made  for  an  ambi- 
tion so  long  obstructed.  But  Graham  affected  no  change  in 
his  mode  of  life  ;  he  still  retained  his  modest  bachelor's  apart- 
ments, engaged  no  servants,  bought  no  horses;  in  no  way  ex- 
ceeded the  income  he  had  possessed  before.  He  seemed,  in  . 
deed,  depressed  rather  than  elated  by  the  succession  to  a  wealth 
which  he  had  never  anticipated. 

Two  children  had  been  born  from  the  marriage  of  Richard 
King  ;  they  had  died  young,  it  is  true,  but  Lady  Janet  at  the 
time  of  her  own  decease  was  not  too  advanced  in  years  for  the 


THE    PARISIANS.  65 

reasonable  expectation  of  other  offspring ;  and  even  after 
Richard  King  became  a  widower,  he  had  given  to  Graham  no 
hint  of  his  testamentary  dispositions.  The  young  man  was  no 
blood-relation  to  him,  and  naturally  supposed  that  such  rela- 
tions would  become  the  heirs.  But  in  truth  the  deceased 
seemed  to  have  no  blood-relations  ;  none  had  ever  been  known 
to  visit  him  ;  none  raised  a  voice  to  question  the  justice  of  his 
will. 

Lady  Janet  had  been  buried  at  Kensal  Green  ;  her  husband's 
remains  were  placed  in  the  same  vault. 

For  days  and  days  Graham  went  his  way  lonelily  to  the 
cemetery.  He  might  be  seen  standing  motionless  by  that  tomb, 
with  tears  rolling  down  his  cheeks  ;  yet  his  was  not  a  weak 
nature,  not  one  of  those  that  love  indulgence  of  irremediable 
grief.  On  the  contrary,  people  who  did  not  know  him  well 
said  "  that-he  had  more  head  than  heart,"  and  the  character  of 
his  pursuits,  as  of  his  writings,  was  certainly  not  that  of  a  senti- 
mentalist. He  had  not  thus  visited  the  tomb  till  Richard  King 
had  been  placed  within  it.  Yet  his  love  for  his  aunt  was 
unspeakably  greater  than  that  which  he  could  have  felt  for  her 
husband.  Was  it,  then,  the  husband  that  he  so  much  more 
acutely  mourned  ;  or  was  there  something  that,  since  the  hus- 
band's death,  had  deepened  his  reverence  for  the  memory  of 
her  whom  he  had  not  only  loved  as  a  mother,  but  honored  as 
a  saint  ? 

These  visits  to  the  cemetery  did  not  cease  till  Graham  was 
confined  to  his  bed  by  a  very  grave  illness — the  only  one  he 
had  ever  known.  His  physician  said  it  was  nervous  fever,  and 
occasioned  by  moral  shock  or  excitement  ;  it  was  attended 
with  delirium.  His  recovery  was  slow,  and  when  it  was  suffi- 
ciently completed  he  quitted  England  ;  and  we  find  him  now, 
with  his  mind  composed,  his  strength  restored,  and  his  spirits 
braced,  in  that  gay  city  of  Paris,  hiding,  perhaps,  some  earnest 
purpose  amid  his  participation  in  its  holiday  enjoyments. 

He  is  now,  as  I  have  said,  seated  before  his  writing-table  in 
deep  thought.  He  takes  up  a  letter  which  he  had  already 
glanced  over  hastily,  and  reperuses  it  with  more  care. 

The  letter  is  from  his  cousin,  the  Duke  of  Alton,  who  had 
succeeded  a  few  years  since  to  the  family  honors — an  able 
man,  with  no  small  degree  of  information,  an  ardent  politician, 
but  of  very  rational  and  temperate  opinions  ;  too  much  occu- 
pied by  the  cares  of  a  princely  estate  to  covet  office  for  him- 
self ;  too  sincere  a  patriot  not  to  desire  office  for  those  to 
whose  hands  he  thought  the  country  might  be  most  safely 


66  THE    PARISIANS. 

entrusted  ;  an  intimate  friend  of  Graham's.  The  contents  of 
the  letter  are  these  : 

MY  DEAR  GRAHAM  : 

I  trust  that  you  will  welcome  the  brilliant  opening  into  pub- 
lic life  which  these  lines  are  intended"  to  announce  to  you. 
Vavasour  has  just  been  with  me  to  say  that  he  intends  to  resign 
his  seat  for  the  county  when  Parliament  meets,  and  agreeing 
with  me  that  there  is  no  one  so  fit  to  succeed  him  as  yourself, 
he  suggests  the  keeping  his  intention  secret  until  you  have 
arranged  your  committee  and  are  prepared  to  take  the  field. 
You  cannot  hope  to  escape  a  contest  ;  but  I  have  examined 
the  Register,  and  the  party  has  gained  rather  than  lost  since 
the  last  election,  when  Vavasour  was  so  triumphantly  returned. 
The  expenses  for  this  county,  where  there  are  so  many  out- 
voters to  bring  up,  and  so  many  agents  to  retain, -are  always 
large  in  comparison  with  some  other  counties  ;  but  that  con- 
sideration is  all  in  your  favor,  for  it  deters  Squire  Hunston,  the 
only  man,  who  could  beat  you,  from  starting  ;  and  to  your 
resources  a  thousand  "pounds  more  or  less  are  a  trifle  not  worth 
discussing.  You  know  how  difficult  it  is  nowadays  to  find  a 
seat  for  a  man  of  moderate  opinions  like  yours  and  mine.  Our 
county  would  exactly  suit  you.  The  constituency  is  so  evenly 
divided  between  the  urban  and  rural  populations,  that  its  repre- 
sentative must  fairly  consult  the  interests  of  both.  He  can  be 
neither  an  ultra-Tory  nor  a  violent  Radical.  He  is  left  to  the 
enviable  freedom,  to  which  you  say  you  aspire,  of  considering 
what  is  best  for  the  country  as  a  whole. 

Do  not  lose  so  rare  an  opportunity.  There  is  but  one  draw- 
back to  your  triumphant  candidature.  It  will  be  said  that  you 
have  no  longer  an  acre  in  the  county  in  which  the  Vanes  have 
been  settled  so  long.  That  drawback  can  be  removed.  It  is 
true  that  you  can  never  hope  to  buy  back  the  estates  which 
you  were  compelled  to  sell  at  your  father's  death — the  old 
manufacturer  gripes  them  too  firmly  to  loosen  his  hold  ;  and 
after  all,  even  were  your  income  double  what  it  is,  you  would 
be  overhoused  in  the  vast  pile  in  which  your  father  buried  so 
large  a  share  of  his  fortune.  But  that  beautiful  old  hunting- 
lodge,  the  Stamm  Schloss  of  your  family,  with  the  adjacent 
farms,  can  be  now  repurchased  very  reasonably.  The  brewer 
who  bought  them  is  afflicted  with  an  extravagant  son.  whom 

he  placed  in  the Hussars,  and  will  gladly  sell  the  property 

for  ^5000  more  than  he  gave  :  well  worth  the  difference,  as 
he  has  improved  the  farm -buildings  and  raised  the  rental.  I 


THE    PARISIANS.  67 

think,  in  addition  to  the  sum  you  have  on  mortgage,  ^23,000 
will  be  accepted,  and  as  a  mere  investment  pay  you  nearly  three 
per  cent.  But  to  you  it  is  worth  more  than  double  the  money  ; 
it  once  more  identifies  your  ancient  name  with  the  county. 
You  would  be  a  greater  personage  with  that  moderate  holding 
in  the  district  in  which  your  race  took  root,  and  on  which  your 
father's  genius  threw  such  a  lustre,  than  you  would  be  if  you 
invested  all  your  wealth  in  a  county  in  which  every  squire  and 
farmer  would  call  you  "  the  new  man."  Pray  think  over  this 
most  seriously,  and  instruct  your  solicitor  to  open  negotiations 
with  the  brewer  at  once.  But  rather  put  yourself  into  the 
train,  and  come  back  to  England  straight  to  me.  I  will  ask 
Vavasour  to  meet  you.  What  news  from  Paris  ?  Is  the  Em- 
peror as  ill  as  the  papers  insinuate?  And  is  the  revolutionary 
party  gaining  ground  ?  Your  affectionate  cousin,  ALTON. 

As  he  put  down  this  letter,  Graham  heaved  a  short,  impatient 
sigh. 

"The  old  Stamm  Schloss,"  he  muttered  ;  "a  foot  on  the  old 
soil  once  more  !  And  an  entrance  into  the  great  arena  with 
hands  unfettered.  Is  it  possible  ! — is  it — is  it  ?  " 

At  this  moment  the  door-bell  of  the  apartment  rang,  and  a 
servant  whom  Graham  had  hired  at  Paris  as  a  laquais  de place 
announced  "  Ce  Monsieur." 

Graham  hurried  the  letter  into  his  portfolio,  and  said,  "You 
mean  the  person  to  whom  I  am  always  at  home?  " 

"  The  same,  monsieur." 

"  Admit  him,  of  course." 

There  entered  a  wonderfully  thin  man,  middle-aged,  clothed 
in  black,  his  face  cleanly  shaven,  his  hair  cut  very  short,  with 
one  of  those  faces  which,  to  use  a  French  expression,  say 
"nothing."  It  was  absolutely  without  expression  ;  it  had  not 
even,  despite  its  thinness,  one  salient  feature.  If  you  had  found 
yourself  anywhere  seated  next  to'  that  man,  your  eye  would 
have  passed  him  over  as  too  insignificant  to  notice  ;  if  at  a 
cafe,  you  would  have  gone  on  talking  to  your  friend  without 
lowering  your  voice.  What  mattered  it  whether  a  bete  like  that 
overheard  or  not  ?  Had  you  been  asked  to  guess  his  calling 
and  station,  you  might  have  said,  minutely  observing  the  fresh- 
ness of  his  clothes  and  the  undeniable  respectability  of  his  tout 
ensemble :  "  He  must  be  well  off,  and  with  no  care  for  customers 
on  his  mind — a  ci-devant  chandler  who  has  retired  on  a  legacy." 

Graham  rose  at  the  entrance  of  his  visitor,  motioned  him 
courteously  to  a  seat  beside  him,  and  waiting  till  the  laquais 
had  vanished,  then  asked,  "  What  news  ?  " 


68  THE    PARISIANS. 

"None,  I  fear,  that  will  satisfy  monsieur.  I  have  certainly 
hunted  out,  since  I  had  last  the  honor  to  see  you,  no  less  than 
four  ladies  of  the  name  of  Duval,  but  only  one  of  them  took 
that  name  from  her  parents,  and  was  also  christened  Louise." 

"  Ah— Louise  !  " 

"  Yes,  the  daughter  of  a  perfumer,  aged  twenty-eight.  She, 
therefore,  is  not  the  Louise  you  seek.  Permit  me  to  refer  to 
your  instructions."  Here  M.  Renard  took  out  a  note-book, 
turned  over  the  leaves,  and  resumed — "  Wanted,  Louise  Duval, 
daughter  of  Auguste  Duval,  a  French  drawing-master,  who 
lived  for  many  years  at  Tours,  removed  to  Paris  in  1845,  lived 
at  No.  12  Rue  de  S at  Paris  for  some  years,  but  after- 
wards moved  to  a  different  quartier  of  the  town,  and  died, 

1848,  in  Rue  L ,  No.  39.  Shortly  after  his  death,  his 

daughter  Louise  left  that  lodging,  and  could  not  be  traced. 
In  1849  official  documents  reporting  her  death  were  forwarded 
from  Munich  to  a  person  (a  friend  of  yours,  monsieur).  Death, 
of  course,  taken  for  granted  ;  but  nearly  five  years  afterwards, 
this  very  person  encountered  the  said  Louise  Duval  at  Aix-la- 
Chapelle,  and  never  heard  nor  saw  more  of  her.  Demande 
submitted,  to  find  out  said  Louise  Duval  or  any  children  of 
hers  born  in  1848-9  ;  supposed  in  1852-3  to  have  one  child,  a 
girl,  between  four  and  five  years  old.  Is  that  right,  mon- 
sieur ? " 

"Quite  right." 

"And  this  is  the  whole  information  given  to  me.  Monsieur 
on  giving  it  asked  me  if  I  thought  it  desirable  that  he  should 
commence  inquiries  at  Aix-la-Chapelle,  where  Louise  Duval 
was  last  seen  by  the  person  interested  to  discover  her.  I 
reply,  No  ;  pains  thrown  away.  Aix-la  Chapelle  is  not  a  place 
where  any  Frenchwoman  not  settled  there  by  a  marriage 
would  remain.  Nor  does  it  seem  probable  that  the  said  Duval 
would  venture  to  select  for  her  residence  Munich,  a  city  in 
which  she  had  contrived  to  obtain  certificates  of  her  death. 
A  Frenchwoman  who  has  once  known  Paris  always  wants  to 
get  back  to  it ;  especially,  monsieur,  if  she  has  the  beauty 
which  you  assign  to  this  lady.  I  therefore  suggested  that  our 
inquiries  should  commence  in  this  capital.  Monsieur  agreed 
with  me,  and  I  did  not  grudge  the  time  necessary  for  investi- 
gation." 

"You were  most  obliging.  Still  I  am  beginning  to  be  impa- 
tient if  time  is  to  be  thrown  away." 

"Naturally.  Permit  me  to  return  to  my  notes.  Monsieur 
informs  me  that  twenty-one  years  ago,  in  1848,  the  Parisian 


THE    PARISIANS.  6<) 

police  were  instructed  to  find  out  this  lady  and  failed,  but  gave 
hopes  of  discovering  her  through  her  relations.  He  asks  rne 
to  refer  to  our  archives  ;  I  tell  him  that  is  no  use.  However, 
in  order  to  oblige  him,  I  do  so.  No  trace  of  such  inquiry ;  it 
must  have  been,  as  monsieur  led  me  to  suppose,  a  strictly 
private  one,  unconnected  with  crime  or  with  politics  ;  and  as  I 
have  the  honor  to  tell  monsieur,  no  record  of  such  investiga- 
tion is  preserved  in  our  office.  Great  scandal  would  there  be, 
and  injury  to  the  peace  of  families,  if  we  preserved  the  results 
of  private  inquiries  intrusted  to  us — by  absurdly  jealous  hus- 
bands, for  instance.  Honor,  monsieur,  honor  forbids  it. 
Next  I  suggest  to  monsieur  that  his  simplest  plan  would  be  an 
advertisement  in  the  French  journals,  stating,  if  I  understand 
him  right,  that  it  is  for  the  pecuniary  interest  of  Madame  or 
Mademoiselle  Duval,  daughter  of  Auguste  Duval,  artiste  en 
dcssin,  to  come  forward.  Monsieur  objects  to  that." 

"  I  object  to  it  extremely  ;  as  I  have  told  you,  this  is  a 
strictly  confidential  inquiry,  and  an  advertisement,  which  in 
all  likelihood  would  be  practically  useless  (it  proved  to  be  so 
in  a  former  inquiry),  would  not  be  resorted  to  unless  all  else 
failed,  and  even  then  with  reluctance." 

"  Quite  so.  Accordingly,  monsieur  delegates  to  me,  who 
have  been  recommended  to  him  as  the  best  person  he  can  em- 
ploy in  that  department  of  our  police  which  is  not  connected 
with  crime  or  political  surveillance,  a  task  the  most  difficult. 
I  have,  through  strictly  private  investigations,  to  discover  the 
address  and  prove  the  identity  of  a  lady  bearing  a  name 
among  the  most  common  in  France,  and  of  whom  nothing  has 
been  heard  for  fifteen  years,  and  then  at  so  migratory  an  endroit 
as  Aix-la-Chapelle.  You  will  not  or  cannot  inform  me  if  since 
that  time  the  lady  has  changed  her  name  by  marriage  ?" 

:<  I  have  no  reason  to  think  that  she  has  ;  and  there  are 
reasons  against  the  supposition  that  she  married  after  1849." 

"Permit  me  to  observe  that  the  more  details  of  information 
monsieur  can  give  me,  the  easier  my  task  of  research  will  be." 

"  I  have  given  you  all  the  details  I  can,  and,  aware  of  the 
difficulty  of  tracing  a  person  with  a  name  so  much  the  reverse 
of  singular,  I  adopted  your  advice  in  our  first  interview,  of  ask- 
ing some  Parisian  friend  of  mine,  with  a  large  acquaintance  in 
the  miscellaneous  societies  of  your  capital,  to  inform  me  of 
any  ladies  of  that  name  whom  he  might  chance  to  encounter  ; 
and  he,  like  you,  has  alighted  upon  one  or  two,  who.  alas  ! 
resemble  the  right  one  in  name,  and  nothing  more." 

"  You  do  wisely  to  keep  him  on  the  watch  as  well  as  myself. 


7O  THE    PARISIANS. 

If  it  were  but  a  murderess  or  a  political  incendiary,  then  you 
might  trust  exclusively  to  the  enlightenment  of  our  corps,  but 
this  seems  an  affair  of  sentiment,  monsieur.  /Sentiment  is  not 
in  our  way.  Seek  the  trace  of  that  in  the  haunts  of  pleasure." 

M..  Renard  having  thus  poetically  delivered  himself  of  that 
philosophical  dogma,  rose  to  depart. 

Graham  slipped  into  his  hand  a  bank-note  of  sufficient  value 
to  justify  the  profound  bow  he  received  in  return. 

When  M.  Renard  had  gone,  Graham  heaved  another  im- 
patient sigh,  and  said  to  himself  :  "  No,  it  is  not  possible  ;  at 
least  not  yet." 

Then,  compressing  his  lips  as  a  man  who  forces  himself  to 
something  he  dislikes,  he  dipped  his  pen  into  the  inkstand, 
and  wrote  rapidly  thus  to  his  kinsman  : 

MY  DEAR  COUSIN  : 

I  lose  not  a  post  in  replying  to  your  kind  and  considerate 
letter.  It  is  not  in  my  power  at  present  to  return  to  England. 
I  need  not  say  how  fondly  I  cherish  the  hope  of  representing 
the  dear  old  county  some  day.  If  Vavasour  could  be  induced 
to  defer  his  resignation  of  the  seat  for  another  session,  or  at 
least  for  six  or  seven  months,  why  then  I  might  be  free  to 
avail  myself  of  the  opening  ;  at  present  I  am  not.  Meanwhile, 
I  am  sorely  tempted  to  buy  back  the  old  Lodge — probably  the 
brewer  would  allow  me  to  leave  on  mortgage  the  sum  I  myself 
have  on  the  property,  and  a  few  additional  thousands.  I  have 
reasons  for  not  wishing  to  transfer  at  present  much  of  the 
money  now  invested  in  the  funds.  I  will  consider  this  point, 
which  probably  does  not  press. 

I  reserve  all  Paris  news  till  my  next  ;  and  begging  you  to 
forgive  so  curt  and  unsatisfactory  a  reply  to  a  letter  so  impor- 
tant that  it  excites  me  more  than  I  like  to  own,  believe  me, 
your  affectionate  friend  and  cousin,  GRAHAM. 


CHAPTER  II. 

AT  about  the  same  hour  on  the  same  day  in  which  the  En- 
glishman held  the  conference  with  the  Parisian  detective  just 
related,  the  Marquis  de  Rochebriant  found  himself  by  appoint- 
ment in  the  cabinet  d'affaires  of  his  avoue1  M.  Gandrin  :  that 
gentleman  had  hitherto  not  found  time  to  give  him  a  definitive 
opinion  as  to  the  case  submitted  to  his  judgment.  The  avoue 
received  Alain  with  a  kind  of  forced  civility,  in  which  the 


iHE    PARISIANS.  71 

natural  intelligence  of  the  Marquis,  despite  his  inexperience  of 
life,  discovered  embarrassment. 

"Monsieur  le  Marquis,"  said  Gandrin,  fidgeting  among  the 
papers  on  his  bureau,  ''this  is  a  very  complicated  business.  I 
have  given  not  only  my  best  attention  to  it,  but  to  your  general 
interests.  To  be  plain,  your  estate,  though  a  fine  one,  is  fear- 
fully encumbered — fearfully — frightfully." 

"  Sir,"  said  the  Marquis  haughtily,  "  that  is  a  fact  which  was 
never  disguised  from  you." 

"  I  do  not  £ay  that  it  was,  Marquis ;  but  I  scarcely  realized 
the  amount  of  the  liabilities  nor  the  nature  of  the  property.  It 
will  be  difficult — nay,  I  fear,  imposible — to  find  any  capitalist  to 
advance  a  sum  that  will  cover  the  mortgages  at  an  interest  less 
than  you  now  pay.  As  fora  company  to  take  the  whole  trouble 
off  your  hands,  clear  off  the  mortgages,  manage  the  forests, 
develop  the  fisheries,  guarantee  you  an  adequate  income,  and 
at  the  end  of  twenty-one  years  or  so  render  up  to  you  or  your 
heirs  the  free  enjoyment  of  an  estate  thus  improved,  we  must 
dismiss  that  prospect  as  a  wild  dream  of  my  good  friend  M. 
Hebert's.  People  in  the  provinces  do  dream  ;  in  Paris  every- 
body is  wide  awake." 

"Monsieur,"  said  the  Marquis,  with  that  inborn-  imperturb- 
able loftiness  of  sang-froid  which  has  always  in  adverse  circum- 
stances characterized  the  French  noblesse,  "be  kind  enough  to 
restore  my  papers.  I  see  that  you  are  not  the  man  for  me. 
Allow  me  only  to  thank  you,  and  inquire  the  amount  of  my 
debt  for  the  trouble  I  have  given." 

"  Perhaps  you  are  quite  justified  in  thinking  I  am  not  the 
man  for  you,  Monsieur  le  Marquis  ;  and  your  papers  shall,  if 
you  decide  on  dismissing  me,  be  returned  to  you  this  evening. 
But  as  to  my  accepting  remuneration  where  I  have  rendered 
no  service,  I  request  M.  le  Marquis  to  put  that  out  of  the  ques- 
tion. Considering  myself,  then,  no  longer  your  avoue,  do  not 
think  I  take  too  great  a  liberty  in  volunteering  my  counsel  as  a 
friend — or  a  friend  at  least  to  M.  Hebert,  if  you  do  not 
vouchsafe  my  right  so  to  address  yourself."- 

M  Gandrin  spoke  with  a  certain  dignity  of  voice  and  manner 
which  touched  and  softened  his  listener. 

"  You  nvake  me  your  debtor  far  more  than  I  pretend  to  repay," 
replied  Alain.  "  Heaven  knows  I  want  a  friend,  and  I  will 
heed  with  gratitude  and  respect  all  your  counsels  in  that  char- 
acter." 

"  Plainly  and  briefly,  my  advice  is  this  :  Monsieur  Lottvier 
is  the  principal  mortgagee.  He  is  among  the  six  richest  capital- 


71  THE    PARISIANS. 

ists  of  Paris.  He  does  not,  therefore,  want  money,  but,  like 
most  self-made  men,  he  is  very  accessible  to  social  vanities.  He 
would  be  proud  to  think  he  had  rendered  a  service  to  a  Roche- 
briant.  Approach  him,  either  through  me,  or,  far  better,  at 
once  introduce  yourself,  and  propose  to  consolidate  all  your 
other  liabilities  in  one  mortgage  to  him,  at  a  rate  of  interest 
lower  than  that  which  is  now  paid  to  some  of  the  small  mort- 
gagees. This  would  add  considerably  to  your  income  and 
would  carry  out  M.  Hebert's  advice." 

"But  does  it  not  strike  you,  dear  M.  Gandtin,  that  such 
going  cap-in-hand  to  one  who  has  power  over  my  fate,  while  I 
have  none  over  his,  would  scarcely  be  consistent  with  my  self- 
respect,  not  as  Rochebriant  only,  but  as  Frenchman?" 

"  It  does  not  strike  me  so  in  the  least  ;  at  all  events,  I  could 
make  the  proposal  on  your  behalf,  without  compromising  your- 
self, though  I  should  be  far  more  sanguine  of  success  if  you 
addressed  M.  Louvier  in  person." 

"I  should  nevertheless  prefer  leaving  it  in  your  hands  :  but 
even  for  that  I  must  take  a  few  days  to  consider.  Of  all  the 
mortgagees,  M.  Louvier  has  been  hitherto  the  severest  and 
most  menacing,  the  one  whom  Hebert  dreads  the  most ;  and 
should  he  become  sole  mortgagee,  my  whole  estate  would  pass 
to  him  if,  through  any  succession  of  bad  seasons  and  failing 
tenants,  the  interest  was  not  punctually  paid." 

"  It  could  so  pass  to  him  now." 

"  No ;  for  there  have  been  years  in  which  the  other  mort- 
gagees, who  are  Bretons,  arid  would  be  loth  to  ruin  a  Roche- 
'briant,  have  been  lenient  and  patient." 

"If  Louvier  has  not  been  equally  so,  it  is  only  because  he 
knew  nothing  of  you,  and  your  father  no  doubt  had  often  sorely 
tasked  his  endurance.  Come,  suppose  we  manage  to  break  the 
ice  easily.  Do  me  the  honor  to  dine  here  to  meet  him  ;  you 
will  find  that  he  is  not  an  unpleasant  man." 

The  Marquis  hesitated,  but  the  thought  of  the  sharp  and 
seemingly  hopeless  struggle  for  the  retention  of  his  ancestral 
home  to  which  he  would  be  doomed  if  he  returned  from  Paris 
unsuccessful  in  his  errand  overmastered  his  pride.  He  felt  as 
if  that  self-conquest  was  a  duty  he  owed  to  the  very  tombs  of 
his  fathers.  "  I  ought  not  to  shrink  from  the  face  of  a  credi- 
tor," said  he,  smiling  somewhat  sadly,  "  and  I  accept  the  pro- 
posal you  so  graciously  make." 

"  You  do  well,  Marquis,  and  I  will  write  at  once  to  Louvier 
to  ask  him  to  give  me  his  first  disengaged  day." 

The  Marquis  had  no  sooner  quitted  the  house  than  M.  Gan- 


THE    PARISIANS.  73 

drin  opened  a  door  at  the  side  of  his  office,  and  a  large,  portly 
man  strode  into  the  room — stride  it  was  rather  than  step — firm, 
self-assured,  arrogant,  masterful. 

"  Well,  mon  ami"  said  this  man,  taking  his  stand  at  the 
hearth,  as  a  king  might  take  his  stand  in  the  hall  of  his  vassal, 
"  and  what  says  our  petit  muscadin  ?  " 

"  He  is  neither/*'/// nor  muscadin,  Monsieur  Louvier,"  replied 
Gandrin  peevishly  ;  "  and  he  will  task  your  powers  to  get  him 
thoroughly  into  your  net.  But  I  have  persuaded  him  to  meet 
you  here.  What  day  can  you  dine  with  me  ?  I  had  better  ask 
no  one  else." 

u  To-morrow  I  dine  with  my  friend  O ,  to  meet  the  chiefs 

of  the  Opposition,"  said  Mons."  Louvier,  with  a  sort  of  careless, 
rollicking  pomposity.  "  Thursday  with  Pereire  ;  Saturday  I 
entertain  at  home.  Say  Friday.  Your  hour?  " 

"  Seven." 

"  Good  !  Show  me  those  Rochebriant  papers  again  ;  there  is 
something  I  had  forgotten  to  'note.  Never  mind  me.  Go  on 
with  your  work  as  if  I  were  not  here." 

Louvier  took  up  the  papers,  seated  himself  in  an  arm-chair 
by  the  fireplace,  stretched  out  his  legs,  and  read  at  his  ease, 
but  with  a  very  rapid  eye,  as  a  practised  lawyer  skims  through 
the  technical  forms  of  a  case  to  fasten  upon  the  marrow  of  it. 

"  Ah  !  as  I  thought.  The  farms  could  not  pay  even  the 
interest  on  my  present  mortgage  ;  the  forests  come  in  for  that. 
If  a  contractor  for  the  yearly  sale  o'f  the  woods,  was  bankrupt 
and  did  not  pay,  how  could  I  get  my  interest  ?  Answer  me 
that,  Gandrin." 

"  Certainly  you  must  run  the  risk  of  that  chance." 

"  Of  course  the  chance  occurs,  and  then  I  foreclose  * — I 
seize — Rochebriant  and  its  seigneuries  are  mine." 

As  he  spoke  he  laughed,  not  sardonically — a  jovial  laugh — 
and  opened  wide,  to  reshut  as  in  a  vise,  the  strong  iron  hand 
which  had  doubtless  closed  over  many  a  man's  all. 

"Thanks.  On  Friday,  seven  o'clock."  He  tossed  the  papers 
back  on  the  bureau,  nodded  a  royal  nod,  and  strode  forth 
imperiously  as  he  had  strided  in. 


CHAPTER  III. 

MEANWHILE  the  young  Marquis  pursued  his  way  thoughtfully 
through  the  streets,  and  entered   the  Champs  Elyse"es.     Since 

*  For  the  sake  of  the  general  reader,  English  technical  words  arc  here,  as  elsewh«re, 
substituted  as  much  as  possible  for  French. 


74  '  THE  PARISIANS. 

we  first,  nay,  since  we  last  saw  him,  he  is  strikingly  improved 
in  outward  appearances.  He  has  unconsciously  acquired 
more  of  the  easy  grace  of  the  Parisian  in  gait  and  bearing. 
You  would  no  longer  detect  the  Provincial ;  perhaps,  how- 
ever, because  he  is  now  dressed,  though  very  simply,  in  habil- 
iments that  belong  to  the  style  of  the  day.  Rarely  among 
the  loungers  in  the  Champs  Elysees  could  be  seen  a  finer  form, 
a  comelier  face,  an  air  of  more  unmistakable  distinction. 

The  eyes  of  many  a  passing  fair  one  gazed  on  him,  admir- 
ingly or  coquettishly.  But  he  was  still  so  little  the  true 
Parisian  that  they  got  "no  smile,  no  look  in  return.  He  was 
wrapt  in  his  own  thoughts  ;  was  he  thinking  of  M.  Louvier  ? 

He  had  nearly  gained  the  entrance  of  the  Bois  de  Boulogne, 
when  he  was  accosted  by  a  voice  behind,  and  turning  round 
saw  his  friend  Lemercier  arm-in-arm  with  Graham  Vane. 

"  Bonjour,  Alain,"  said  Lemercier,  hooking  his  disengaged 
arm  into  Rochebriant's.  "  I  suspect  we  are  going  the  same 
way." 

Alain  felt  himself  change  countenance  at  this  conjecture, 
and  replied  coldly:  "  I  think  not ;  I  have  got  to  the  end  of 
my  walk,  and  shall  turn  back  to  Paris";  addressing  himself 
to  the  Englishman,  he  said  with  formal  politeness  :  "  I  regret 
not  to  have  found  you  at  home  when  I  called  some  weeks  ago, 
and  no  less  so  to  have  been  out  when  you  had  the  com- 
plaisance to  return  the  visit." 

"  At  all  events,"  replied  the  Englishman,  "  let  me  not  lose 
the  opportunity  of  improving  our  acquaintance  which  now 
offers.  It  is  true  that  our  friend  Lemercier,  catching  sight  of 
me  in  the  Rue  de  Rivoli,  stopped  his  coupe  and  carried  me  off 
for  a  promenade  in  the  Bois.  The  "fineness  of  the  day  tempted 
us  to  get  out  of  his  carriage  as  the  Bois  came  in  sight.  But  if 
you  are  going  back  to  Paris  I  relinquish  the  Bois  and  offer 
myself  as  your  companion." 

Frederic  (the  name  is  so  familiarly  English  that  the  reader 
might  think  me  pedantic  did  I  accentuate  it  as  French)  looked 
from  one  to  the  other  of  his  two  friends,  half  amused  and  half 
angry. 

"  And  am  I  to  be  left  alone  to  achieve  a  conquest,  in  which, 
if  I  succeed,  I  shall  change  into  hate  and  envy  the  affection 
of  my  two  best  friends  ?  Be  it  so. 

'  Un  veritable  amant  ne  connait  point  d'amis. '  " 

"  I  do  not  comprehend  your  meaning,"  said  the  Marquis, 
with  a  compressed  lip  and  a  slight  frown. 

"  Bah  ! "  cried  Frederic  ;  "  come,  franc  jeu — cards  on  the 


THE    PARISIANS.  75 

table — M.  Gram  Varn  was  going  into  the  Bois  at  my  suggestion 
on  the  chance  of  having  another  look  at  the  pearl-colored 
angel ;  and  you,  Rochebriant,  can't  deny  that  you  were  going 
into  the  Bois  for  the  same  object." 

"One  may  pardon  an  enfant  terrible"  said  the  Englishman, 
laughing,  "  but  an  ami  terrible  should  be  sent  to  the  galleys. 
Come,  Marquis,  let  us  walk  back  and  submit  to  our  fate. 
Even  were  the  lady  once  more  visible,  we  have  no  chance  of 
being  observed  by  the  side  of  a  Lovelace  so  accomplished  and 
so  audacious  ! " 

"  Adieu,  then,  recreants  ;   I  go  alone.     Victory  or  death." 
'  The  Parisian  beckoned   his  coachman,  entered  his  carriage, 
and  with  a  mocking  grimace  kissed  his  hand  to  the  companions 
thus  deserting  or  deserted. 

Rochebriant  touched  the  Englishman's  arm,  and  said  :  "Do 
you  think  that  Lemercier  could  be  impertinent  enough  to  accost 
that  lady?" 

"  In  the  first  place,"  returned  the  Englishman,  "  Lemercier 
himself  tells  me  that  the  lady  has  for  several  weeks  relinquished 
her  walks  in  the  Bois,  and  the  probability  is,  therefore,  that  he 
will  not  have  the  opportunity  to  accost  her.  In  the  next  place, 
it  appears  that  when  she  did  take  her  solitary  walk,  she  did 
not  stray  far  from  her  carriage,  and  was  in  reach  of  the  pro- 
tection of  her  laquais  and  coachman.  But  to  speak  honestly, 
do  you,  who  know  Lemercier  better  than  I,  take  him  to  be  a 
man  who  would  commit  an  impertinence  to  a  woman  unless 
there  were  viveurs  of  his  own  sex  to  see  him  do  it  ? " 

Alain  smiled.  "  No.  Frederic's  real  nature  is  an  admirable 
one  ;  and  if  he  ever  do  anything  that  he  ought  to  be  ashamed 
of,  'twill  be  from  the  pride  of  showing  how  finely  he  can  do  it. 
Such  was  his  character  at  college,  and  such  it  still  seems  at 
Paris.  But  it  is  true  that  the  lady  has  forsaken  her  former 
walk  ;  at  least  I — I  have  not  seen  her  since  the  day  I  first 
beheld  her  in  company  wilh  Frederic.  Yet — yet,  pardon  me, 
you  were  going  to  the  Bois  on  the  chance  of  seeing  her.  Per- 
haps she  has  changed  the  direction  of  her  walk,  and — and — " 

The  Marquis  stopped  short,  stammering  and  confused. 

The  Englishman  scanned  his  countenance  with  the  rapid 
glance  of  a  practised  observer  of  men  and  things,  and  after  a 
short  pause,  said  :  "If  the  lady  has  selected  some  other  spot 
for  her  promenade,  I  am  ignorant  of  it;  nor  have  I  even  volun- 
teered the  chance  of  meeting  with  her,  since  I  learned — first 
from  Lemercier,  and  afterwards  from  others — that  her  destina- 
tion is  the  stage.  Let  us  talk  frankly.  Marquis.  I  am  accus' 


}6  THE    PARISIANS. 

tomed  to  take  much  exercise  on  foot,  and  the  Boisis  my  favorite 
resort.  One  day  I  there  found  myself  in  the  allee  which  the 
lady  we  speak  of  used  to  select  for  her  promenade,  and  there 
saw  her.  Something  in  her  face  impressed  me  ;  how  shall  I 
describe  the  impression  ?  Did  you  ever  open  a  poem,  a  romance, 
in  some  style  wholly  new  to  you,  and  before  you  were  quite 
certain  whether  or  not  its  merits  justified  the  interest  which 
the  novelty  inspired,  you  were  summoned  away,  or  the  book 
was  taken  out  of  your  hands  ?  If  so,  did  you  not  feel  an  intel- 
lectual longing  to  have  another  glimpse  of  the  book?  That 
illustration  describes  my  impression,  and  I  own  that  I  twice 
again  went  to  the  same  allee.  The  last  time  I  only  caught 
sight  of  the  young  lady  as  she  was  getting  into  her  carriage. 
As  she  was  then  borne  away,  I  perceived  one  of  the  custodians 
of  the  Bois  ;  and  learned,  on  questioning  him,  that  the  lady 
was  in  the  habit  of  walking  always  alone  in  the  same  allee  at 
the  same  hour  on  most  fine  days,  but  that  he  did  not  know 
her  name  or  address.  A  motive  of  curiosity — perhaps  an  idle 
one — then  made  me  ask  Lemercier,  who  boasts  of  knowing  his 
Paris  so  intimately,  if  he  could  inform  me  who  the  lady  was. 
He  undertook  to  ascertain." 

"  But,"  interposed  the  Marquis,  "he  did  not  ascertain  who 
she  was ;  he  only  ascertained  where  she  lived,  and  that  she 
and  an  elder  companion  were  Italians,  whom  he  suspected, 
without  sufficient  ground,  to  be  professional  singers." 

"  True  ;  but  since  then  I  ascertained  more  detailed  partic- 
ulars from  two  acquaintances  of  mine  who  happen  to  know 
her  :  M.  Savarin,  the  distinguished  writer,  and  Mrs.  Morley, 
an  accomplished  and  beautiful  American  lady,  who  is  more 
than  an  acquaintance.  I  may  boast  the  honor  of  ranking 

among  her  friends.  As  Savarin's  villa  is  at  A ,  I  asked 

him  incidentally  if  he  knew  the  fair  neighbor  whose  face  had 
so  attracted  me  ;  and  Mrs.  Morley  being  present,  and  over- 
hearing me,  I  learned  from  both  what  I  now  repeat  to  you. 

"  The  young  lady  is  a  Signorina  Cicogna — at  Paris,  exchang- 
ing (except  among  particular  friends),  as  is  not  unusual,  the 
outlandish  designation  of  signorina  for  the  more  conventional 
one  of  mademoiselle.  Her  father  was  a  member  of  the  noble 
Milanese  family  of  the  same  name,  therefore  the  young  lady  is 
well-born.  Her  father  has  been  long  dead  ;  his  widow  married 
again  an  English  gentleman  settled  in  Italy,  a  scholar  and 
antiquarian  ;  his  name  was  Selby.  This  gentleman,  also  dead, 
bequeathed  the  Signorina  a  small  but  sufficient  competence. 
She  is  now  an  orphan,  and  residing  with  a  companion,  a  Sig- 


THE    PARISIANS.  *y 

nora  Venosta,  who  was  once  a  singer  of  some  repute  at  ihr 
Neapolitan  Theatre,  in  the  orchestra  of  which  her  husband  wan 
principal  performer ;  but  she  relinquished  the  stage  several 
years  ago  on  becoming  a  widow,  and  gave  lessons  as  a  teacher 
She  has  the  character  of  being  a  scientific  musician,  and  ol 
unblemished  private  respectability.  Subsequently  she  was 
induced  to  give  up  general  teaching,  and  undertake  the  musical 
education  and  the  social  charge  of  the  yonng  lady  with  her. 
This  girl  is  said  to  have  early  given  promise  of  extraordinary 
excellence  as  a  singer,  and  excited  great  interest  among  a 
coterie  of  literary  critics  and  musical  cognoscenti.  She  was  to 
have  come  out  at  the  Theatre  of  Milan  a  year  or  t\vo  ago,  bu* 
her  career  has  been  suspended  in  consequence  of  ill-health,  for 
which  she  is  now  at  Paris  under  the  care  of  an  English  physi- 
cian, who  has  made  remarkable  cures  in  all  complaints  of  the 

respiratory  organs.  M ,  the  great  composer,  who  knows 

her,  says  that  in  expression  and  feeling  she  has  no  living, 
superior,  perhaps  no  equal  since  Malibran." 

"  You  seem,  dear  monsieur,  to  have  taken  much  pains  to 
acquire  this  information." 

"No  great  pains  were  necessary  ;  but  had  they  been  I  might 
have  taken  them,  for,  as  I  have  owned  to  you,  Mademoiselle 
Cicogna,  while  she  was  yet  a  mystery  to  me,  strangely  interested 
my  thoughts  or  my  fancies.  The  interest  has  now  ceased. 
The  world  of  actresses  and  singers  lies  apart  from  mine." 

"Yet,"  said  Alain  in  a  tone  of  voice  that  implied  doubt,  "if 
I  understand  Lemercier  aright,  you  were  going  with  him  to  the 
Bois  on  the  chance  of  seeing  again  the  lady  in  whom  your  in- 
terest has  ceased." 

"  Lemercier's  account  was  not  strictly  accurate.  He  stopped 
his  carriage  to  speak  to  me  on  quite  another  subject,  on  which 
I  have  consulted  him,  and  then  proposed  to  take  me  on  to  the 
Bois.  I  assented  ;  and  it  was  not  till  we  were  in  the  carriage 
that  he  suggested  the  idea  of  seeing  whether  the  pearly-robed 
lady  had  resumed  her  walk  in  the  allee.  You  may  judge  how 
indifferent  I  was  to  that  chance  when  I  preferred  turning  back 
with  you  to.  going  on  with  him.  Between  you  and  me,  Marquis, 
to  men  of  our  age,  who  have  the  business  of  life  before  them, 
and  feel  that  if  there  be  aught  in  which  noblesse  oblige  it  is  a 
severe  devotion  to  noble  objects,  there  is  nothing  more  fatal 
to  such  devotion  than  allowing  the  heart  to  be  blown  hither 
and  thither  at  every  breeze  of  mere  fancy,  and  dreaming  our- 
selves into  love  with  some  fair  creature  whom  we  never  could 
marry  consistently  with  the  career  we  have  set  before  our 


?8  THE    PARISIANS. 

ambition.  I  could  not  marry  an  actress ;  neither,  I  presume, 
could  the  Marquis  de  Rochebriant ;  and  the  thought  of  a 
courtship  which  excluded  the  idea  of  marriage  to  a  young 
orphan  of  name  unblemished,  of  virtue  unsuspected,  would 
certainly  not  be  compatible  with  'devotion  to  noble  objects.'" 

Alain  involuntarily  bowed  his  head  in  assent  to  the  proposi- 
tion, and,  it  may  be,  in  submission  to  an  implied  rebuke.  The 
two  men  walked  in  silence  for  some  minutes,  and  Graham  first 
spoke,  changing  altogether  the  subject  of  conversation. 

"  Lemercier  tells  me  you  decline  going  much  into  this  world 
of  Paris — the  capital  of  capitals — which  appears  so  irresistibly 
attractive  to  us  foreigners." 

"  Possibly  ;  but,  to  borrow  your  words,  I  have  the  business 
of  life  before  me." 

"  Business  is  a  good  safeguard  against  the  temptation  to  excess 
in  pleasure  in  which  Paris  abounds.  But.  there  is  no  business 
which  does  not  admit  of  some  holiday,  and  all  business  neces- 
sitates commerce  with  mankind.  Apropos,  I  was  the  other 
evening  at  the  Duchesse  de  Tarascon's — a  brilliant  assembly, 
filled  with  ministers,  senators,  and  courtiers.  I  heard  your 
name  mentioned." 

"Mine?" 

"Yes  ;  Duplessis,  the  rising  financier — who  rather  to  my  sur- 
prise was  not  only  present  among  these  official  and  decorated 
celebrities,  but  apparently  quite  at  home  among  them — asked 
the  Duchess  if  she  had  not  seen  you  since  your  arrival  at  Paris. 
She  replied  :  '  No ;  that  though  you  were  among  her  nearest 
connections,  you  had  not  called  on  her  ' ;  and  bade  Duplessis 
tell  you  that  you  were  a  monstre  for  not  doing  so.  Whether  ot- 
not  Duplessis  will  take  that  liberty  1  know  not  ;  but  you  must 
pardon  me  if  1  do.  She  is  a  very  charming  woman,  full  of 
talent ;  and  that  stream  of  the  world  which  reflects  the  stars, 
with  all  their  mythical  influences  on  fortune,  flows  through  her 
salons." 

"  I  am  not  born  under  those  stars.     I  am  a  Legitimist." 

"  I  did  not  forget  your  p^itical  creed  ;  but  in  England  the 
leaders  of  opposition  attend  the  salons  of  the  Prime  Minister. 
A  man  is  not  supposed  to  compromise  his  opinions  because  he 
exchanges  social  courtesies  with  those  to  whom  his  opinions 
are  hostile.  Pray  excuse  me  if  I  am  indiscreet — I 'speak  as  a 
traveller  who  asks  for  information — but  do  the  Legitimists  really 
believe  that  they  best  serve  their  cause  by  declining  any  mode 
of  competing  with  its  opponents  ?  Would  there  not  be  a  fairer 
chance  for  the  ultimate  victory  of  their  principles  if  they  made 


THE    PARISIANS.  79 

their  talents  and  energies  individually  prominent  ;  if  they  were 
known  as  skilful  generals,  practical  statesmen,  eminent  diplom- 
atists, brilliant  writers?  Could  they  combine — not  to  sulk  and 
exclude  themselves  from  the  great  battle-field  of  the  world — but 
in  their  several  ways  to  render  themselves  of  such  use  to  their 
country  that  some  day  or  other,  in  one  of  those  revolutionary 
crises  to  which  France,  alas  !  must  long  be  subjected,  they 
would  find  themselves  able  to  turn  the  scale  of  undecided 
councils  and  conflicting  jealousies  ?  " 

"  Monsieur,  we  hope  for  the  day  when  the  Divine  Disposer 
of  events  will  strike  into  the  hearts  of  our  fickle  and  erring 
countrymen  the  conviction  that  there  will  be  no  settled  repose 
for  France  save  under  the  sceptre  of  her  rightful  kings.  But 
meanwhile  we  are — I  see  it  more  clearly  since  I  have  quitted 
Bretagne — we  are  a  hopeless  minority." 

<;  Does  not  history  tell  us  that  the  great  changes  of  the 
world  have  been  wrought  by  minorities  ?  But  on  the  one 
condition  that  the  minorities  shall  not  be  hopeless  ?  It  is 
almost  the  other  day  that  the  Bonapartists  were  in  a  minority 
that  their  adversaries  called  hopeless,  and  the  majority  for  the 
Emperor  is  now  so  preponderant  that  I  tremble  for  his  safety. 
When  a  majority  becomes  so  vast  that  intellect  disappears  in 
the  crowd,  the  date  of  its  destruction  commences  ;  for  by  the 
law  of  reaction  the  minority  is  installed  against  it.  It  is  the 
nature  of  things  that  minorities  are  always  more  intellectual 
than  multitudes,  and  intellect  is  ever  at  work  in  sapping 
numerical  force.  What  your  party  want  is  hope  ;  because 
without  hope  there  is  no  energy.  I  remember  hearing  my 
father  say  that  when  he  met  the  Count  de  Chambord  at  Ems, 
that  illustrious  personage  delivered  himself  of  a  belle  phrase 
much  admired  by  his  partisans.  The  Emperor  was  then 
President  of  the  Republic,  in  a  very  doubtful  and  dangerous 
position.  France  seemed  on  the  verge  of  another  convulsion. 
A  certain  distinguished  politician  recommended  the  Count  de 
Chambord  to  hold  himself  ready  to  enter  at  once  as  a  candi- 
date for  the  throne.  And  the  Count,  with  a  benignant  smile 
on  his  handsome  face,  answered  :  'All  wrecks  come  to  the 
shore — the  shore  does  not  go  to  the  wrecks.' " 

"  Beautifully  said  !  "  exclaimed  the  Marquis. 

"  Not  if  Le  beau  est  toujours  le  vrai.  My  father,  no  inex- 
perienced nor  unwise  politician,  in  repeating  the  royal  words, 
remarked  :  '  The  fallacy  of  the  Count's  argument  is  in  its 
metaphor.  A  man  is  not  a  shore.  Do  you  not  think  that  the 
seamen  on  board  the  wrecks  would  be  more  grateful  to  him  who 


8o  THE    PARISIANS. 

did  not  complacently  compare  himself  to  a  shore,  but  con- 
sidered himself  a  human  being  like  themselves,  and  risked  his 
own  life  in  a  boat,  even  though  it  were  a  cockle-shell,  in  the 
chance  of  saving  theirs  ?  '  ' 

Alain  de  Rochebriant  was  a  brave  man,  with  that  intense 
sentiment  of  patriotism  which  characterizes  Frenchmen  of 
every  rank  and  persuasion,  unless  they  belong  to  the  Inter- 
nationalists ;  and  without  pausing  to  consider,  he  cried  : 
"  Your  father  was  right." 

The  Englishman  resumed  :  "  Need  I  say,  my  dear  Marquis, 
that  I  am  not  a  Legitimist  ?  I  am  not  an  Imperialist,  neither 
am  I  an  Orleanist,  not  a  Republican.  Between  all  those  politi- 
cal divisions  it  is  for  Frenchmen  to  make  their  choice,  and  for 
Englishmen  to  accept  for  France  that  government  which  France 
has  established.  I  view  things  here  as  a  simple  observer. 
But  it  strikes  me  that  if  I  were  a  Frenchman  in  your  position, 
I  should  think  myself  unworthy  my  ancestors  if  I  consented 
to  be  an  insignificant  looker-on." 

"You  are  not  in  my  position,"  said  the  Marquis,  half  mourn- 
fully, half  haughtily,  "and  you  can  scarcely  judge  of  it  even 
in  imagination." 

"I  need  not  much  task  my  imagination  ;  I  judge  of  it  by 
analogy.  I  was  very  much  in  your  position  when  I  entered 
upon  what  I  venture  to  call  my  career  ;  and  it  is  the  curious 
similarity  between  us  in  circumstances,  that  made  me  wish  for 
your  friendship  when  that  similarity  was  made  known  to  me 
by  Lemercier,  who  is  not  less  garrulous  than  the  true  Parisian 
usually  is.  Permit  me  to  say  that,  like  you,  I  was  reared  in 
some  pride  of  no  inglorious  ancestry.  I  was  reared  also  in 
the  expectation  of  great  wealth.  Those  expectations  were  not 
realized  :  my  father  had  the  fault  of  noble  natures — generosity 
pushed  to  imprudence  :  he  died  poor  and  in  debt.  You  retain 
the  home  of  your  ancestors  ;  Fbad  to  resign  mine." 

The  Marquis  had  felt  deeply  interested  in  this  narrative,  and 
as  Graham  now  paused,  took  his  hand  and  pressed  it. 

"  One  of  our  most  eminent  personages  said  to  me  about  that 
time,  '  Whatever  a  clever  man  of  your  age  determines  to  do  or 
to  be,  the  odds  are  twenty  to  one  that  he  has  only  to  live  on  in 
order  to  do  or  to  be  it.'  Don't  you  think  he  spoke  truly  ?  I 
think  so." 

"I  scarcely  know  what  to  think,"  said  Rochebriant ;  "I  feel 
as  if  you  had  given  me  so  rough  a  shake  when  I  was  in  the 
midst  of  a  dull  dream,  that  I  am  not  yet  quite  sure  whether  I 
am  asleep  or  awake." 


THE    PARISIANS.  8l 

Just  as  he  said  this,  and  towards  the  Paris  end  of  the  Champs 
Elysees,  there  was  a  halt,  a  sensation  among  the  loungers  round 
them  :  many  of  them  uncovered  in  salute. 

A  man  on  the  younger  side  of  middle  age,  somewhat  in- 
clined to  corpulence,  with  a  very  striking  countenance,  was 
riding  slowly  by.  He  returned  the  salutations  he  received  with 
the  careless  dignity  of  a  personage  accustomed  to  respect,  and 
then  reined  in  his  horse  by  the  side  of  a  barouche,  and  ex- 
changed some  words  with  a  portly  gentleman  who  was  its  sole 
occupant.  The  loungers,  still  halting,  seemed  to  contemplate 
this  parley — between  him  on  horseback  and  him  in  the  car- 
riage— with  very  eager  interest.  Some  put  their  hands  behind 
their  ears  and  pressed  forward,  as  if  trying  to  overhear  what 
was  said. 

"I  wonder,"  quoth  Graham,  "whether,  with  all  his  clever- 
ness, the  Prince  has  in  any  way  decided  what  he  means  to  do 
or  to  be." 

"The  Prince!"  said  Rochebriant,  rousing  himself  from  rev- 
ery  ;  "  what  Prince  ?  " 

"Do  you  not  recognize  him  by  his  wonderful  likeness  to  the 
first  Napoleon — him  on  horseback  talking  to  Louvier,  the 
great  financier?" 

"  Is  that  stout  bourgeois  in  the  carriage  Louvier — my  mort- 
gagee, Louvier?" 

"Your  mortgagee,  my  dear  Marquis?  Well,  he  is  rich 
enough  to  be  a  very  lenient  one  upon  pay-day." 

"  Hcin  !  I  doubt  his  leniency,"  said  Alain.  "I  have  prom- 
ised my  avoue  to  meet  him  at  dinner.  Do  you  think  I  did 
wrong  ?  " 

"  Wrong  !  Of  course  not;  he  is  likely  to  overwhelm  you 
with  civilities.  Pray  don't  refuse  if  he  gives  you  an  invitation 
to  his  soiree  next  Saturday — I  am  going  to  it.  One  meets  there 
the  notabilities  most  interesting  to  study  :  artists,  authors, 
politicians,  especially  those  who  call  themselves  Republicans. 
He  and  the  Prince  agree  in  one  thing,  viz.,  the  cordial  recep- 
tion they  give  to  the  men  who  would  destroy  the  state  of 
things  upon  which  Prince  and  financier  both  thrive.  Hillo! 
here  comes  *Lemercier  on  return  from  the  Bois." 

Lemercier's  coupe  stopped  beside  the  footpath.  "  What  tid- 
ings of  the  Belle  Inconnue1}"  asked  the  Englishman. 

"  None ;  she  was  not  there.  But  I  am  rewarded — such  an 
adventure — a  dame  of  the  haule  voice — I  believe  she  is  a  duch- 
ess. She  was  walking  with  a  lap-dog,  a  pure  Pomeranian.  A 
strange  poodle  flew  at  the  Pomeranian,  I  drove  off  the  poodle, 


82  THE    PARISIANS. 

rescued  the  Pomeranian,  received  the  most  gracious  thanks, 
the  sweetest  smile — -fetnme  superbe,  middle  aged.  I  prefer 
women  of  forty.  Au  revoir,  I  am  due  at  the  club." 

Alain  felt  a  sensation  of  relief  that  Lemercier  had  not  seen 
the  lady  in  the  pearl-colored  dress,  and  quitted  the  English- 
man with  a  lightened  heart. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

"  Piccola,  piccolo, !  com  I  cortese  !  another  invitation  from  M. 
Louvier  for  next  Saturday — conversazione"  This  was  said  in 
Italian  by  an  elderly  lady  bursting  noisily  into  the  room — 
elderly,  yet  with  a  youthful  expression  of  face,  owing  perhaps 
to  a  pajr  of  very  vivacious  black  eyes.  She  was  dressed  after 
a  somewhat  slatternly  fashion,  in  a  wrapper  of  crimson  merino 
much  the  worse  for  wear,  a  blue  handkerchief  twisted  turban- 
like  round  her  head,  and  her  feet  encased  in  list  slippers.  The 
person  to  whom  she  addressed  herself  was  a  young  lady  with 
dark  hair,  which,  despite  its  evident  redundance,  was  restrained 
into  smooth,  glossy  braids  over  the  forehead,  and  at  the  crown 
of  the  small  graceful  head  into  the  simple  knot  which  Hor- 
ace has  described  as  "Spartan."  Her  dress  contrasted  the 
speaker's  by  as  exquisite  neatness.  We  have  seen  her  before 
as  the  lady  in  the  pearl-colored  robe,  but  seen  now  at  home 
she  looks  much  younger.  She  was  one  of  those  whom,  en- 
countered in  the  streets  or  in  society,  one  might  guess  to  be 
married — probably  a  young  bride  ;  for  thus  seen  there  was 
about  her  an  air  of  dignity  and  of  self-possession  which  suits 
well  with  the  ideal  of  chaste,  youthful  matronage  ;  and  in  the 
expression  of  the  face  there  was  a  pensive  thoughtfulness  be- 
yond her  years.  But  as  she  now  sat  by  the  open  window  ar- 
ranging flowers  in  a  glass  bowl,  a  book  lying  open  on  her  lap, 
you  would  never  have  said  :  "  What  a  handsome  woman  !  " 
You  would  have  said  :  "  What  a  charming  girl !  "  All  about 
her  was  maidenly,  innocent,  and  fresh.  The  dignity  of  her 
bearing  was  lost  in  household  ease,  the  pensiveness^of  her  ex- 
pression in  an  untroubled,  serene  sweetness. 

Perhaps  many  of  my  readers  may  have  known  friends  en; 
gaged  in  some  absorbing  cause  of  thought,  and  who  are  in  the 
habit  when  they  go  out,  especially  if  on  solitary  walks,  to  take 
that  cause  of-  thought  with  them.  The  friend  may  be  an  ora- 
tor meditating  his  speech,  a  poet  his  verses,  a  lawyer  a  difficult 
case,  a  physician  an  intricate  malady.  If  you  have  such  a 

\ 


THE   PARISIANS.  83 

friend,  and  you  observe  him  thus  away  from  his  home,  his  face 
will  seem  to  you  older  and  graver.  He  is  absorbed  in  the  care 
that  weighs  on  him.  When  you  see  him  in  a  holiday  moment 
at  his  own  fireside,  the  care  is  thrown  aside  ;  perhaps  he  mas- 
tered while  abroad  the  difficulty  that  had  troubled  him  ;  he  is 
cheerful,  pleasant,  sunny.  This  appears  to  be  very  much  the 
case  with  persons  of  genius.  When  in  their  own  houses  we 
usually  find  them  very  playful  and  childlike.  Mest  persons  of 
real  genius,  whatever  they  may  seem  out  of  doors,  are  very 
sweet-tempered  at  home,  and  sweet  temper  is  sympathizing  and 
genial  in  the  intercourse  of  private  life.  Certainly,  observing 
this  girl  as  she  now  bends  over  the  flowers,  it  would  be  diffi- 
cult to  believe  her  to  be  the  Isaura  Cicogna  whose  letters  to 
Madame  de  Grantmesnil  exhibit  the  doubts  and  struggles  of  an 
unquiet,  discontented,  aspiring  mind.  Only  in  one  or  two  pas- 
sages in  those  letters  would  you  have  guessed  at  the  writer  in 
the  girl  as  we  now  see  her. 

It  is  in  those  passages  where  she  expresses  her  love  of  har- 
mony, and  her  repugnance  to  contest  ;  those  were  character- 
istics you  might  have  read  in  her  face. 

Certainly  the  girl  is  very  lovely  :  what  long,  dark  eyelashes  ; 
what  soft,  tender,  dark-blue  eyes  !  Now  that  she  looks  up  and 
smiles,  what  a  bewitching  smile  it  is  !  By  what  sudden  play  of 
rippling  dimples  the  smile  is  enlivened  and  redoubled  !  Do 
you  notice  one  feature?  In  very 'showy  beauties  it  is  seldom 
noticed  ;  but  I,  being  in  my  way  a  physiognomist,  consider 
that  it  is  always  worth  heeding  as  an  index  of  character.  It  is 
the  ear.  Remark  how  delicately  it  is  formed  in  her  ;  none  of 
that  heaviness  of  lobe  which  is  a  sure  sign  of  sluggish  intellect 
and  coarse  perception.  Hers  is  the  artist's  ear.  Note  next 
those  hands,  how  beautifully  shaped  !  Small  but  not  doll-like 
hands  ;  ready  and  nimble,  firm  and  nervous  hands,  that  could 
work  for  a  helpmate.  By  no  means  very  white,  still  less  red, 
but  somewhat  embrowned  as  by  the  sun,  such  as  you  may  see 
in  girls  reared  in  southern  climates,  and  in  her  perhaps  be- 
tokening an  impulsive  character  which  had  not  accustomed 
itself,  when  at  sport  in  the  open  air,  to  the  thraldom  of  gloves  ; 
very  impulsive  people  even  in  cold  climates  seldom  do. 

In  conveying  to  us  by  a  few  bold  strokes  an  idea  of  the 
sensitive,  quick-moved,  warm-blooded  Henry  II.,  the  most 
impulsive  of  the  Plantagenets,  his  contemporary  chronicler  tells 
us  that  rather  than  imprison  those  active  hands  of  his,  even  in 
hawking-gloves,  he  would  suffer  his  falcon  to  fix  its  sharp  claws 
into  his  wrist.  No  doubt  there  is  a  difference  as  to  what  is  be- 


84  THE    PARISIANS. 

filling  between  a  burly,  bellicose  creature  like  Henry  II.  and  a 
delicate  young  lady  like  Isaura  Cicogna  ;  and  one  would  not 
wish  to  see  those  dainty  wrists  of  hers  seamed  and  scarred  by 
a  falcon's  claws.  But  a  girl  may  not  be  less  exquisitely  femi- 
nine for  slight  heed  of  artificial  prettinesses.  Isaura  had  no 
need  of  pale,  bloodless  hands  to  seem  one  of  Nature's  highest 
grade  of  gentlewomen  even  to  the.  most  fastidious  eyes.  About 
her  there  was  a  charm  apart  from  her  mere  beauty,  and  often 
disturbed  instead  of  heightened  by  her  mere  intellect :  it  con- 
sisted in  a  combination  of  exquisite  artistic  refinement,  and  of 
a  generosity  of  character  by  which  refinement  was  animated 
into  vigor  and  warmth. 

The  room,  which  was  devoted  exclusively  to  Isanra,  had  in 
it  much  that  spoke  of  the  occupant.  That  room,  when  first 
taken  furnished,  had  a  good  deal  of  the  comfortless  showiness 
which  belongs  to  ordinary  furnished  apartments  in  France, 
especially  in  the  Parisian  suburbs,  chiefly  let  for  the  summer  : 
thin,  limp  muslin  curtains  that  decline  to  draw,  stiff  mahogany 
chairs  covered  with  yellow  Utrecht  velvet,  a  tall  secretaire  in  a 
dark  corner,  an  oval  buhl-table  set  in  tawdry  ormolu,  islanded 
in  the  centre  of  a  poor  but  gaudy  Scotch  carpet,  and  but  one 
other  table  of  dull  walnut-wood,  standing  clothless  before  a 
sofa  to  match  the  chairs  ;  the  eternal  ormolu  clock  flanked  by 
the  two  eternal  ormolu  candalebra  on  the  dreary  mantel-piece. 
Some  of  this  garniture  had  been  removed,  others  softened  into 
cheeriness  and  comfort.  The  room,  somehow  or  other — 
thanks  partly  to  a  very  moderate  expenditure  in  pretty  twills 
with  pretty  borders,  gracefully  simple  table-covers,  with  one  or 
two  additional  small  tables  and  easy-chairs,  two  simple  vases 
filled  with  flowers  ;  thanks  still  more  to  a  nameless  skill  in  re- 
arrangement, and  the  disposal  of  the  slight  nicknacks  and  well- 
bound  volumes, which,  even  in  travelling,  women  who  have  cul- 
tivated the  pleasures  of  taste  carry  about  with  them — had  been 
coaxed  into  that  quiet  harmony,  that  tone  of  consistent  subdued 
colors  which  corresponded  with  the  characteristics  of  the  inmate. 
Most  people  might "  have  been  puzzled  where  to  place  the 
piano,  a  semi-grand,  so  as  not  to  take, up  too  much  space  in 
the  little  room  ;  but  where  it  was  placed  it  seemed  so  at  home 
that  you  might  have  supposed  the  room  had  been  built  for  it. 

There  are  two  kinds  of  neatness  :  one  is  too  evident,  and 
makes  everything  about  it  seem  trite  and  cold  and  stiff,  and  an- 
other kind  of  neatness  disappears  from  our  sight  in  a  satisfied 
sense  of  completeness — like  some  exquisite,  simple,  finished 
style  of  writing,  an  Addison's  or  a  St.  Pierre's. 


THE    PARISIANS.  85 

This  last  sort  of  neatness  belonged  to  Isaura,  and  brought  to 
mind  th"e  well-known  line  of  Catullus  when  on  recrossing  his 
threshold  he  invokes  its  welcome — a  line  thus  not  inelegantly 
translated  by  Leigh  Hunt : 

"  Smile  every  dimple  on  the  cheek  of  Home." 

I  entreat  the  reader's  pardon  for  this  long  descriptive  digres 
sion  ;  but  Jsaura  is  one  of  those  characters  which  are  called 
many-sided,  and  therefore  not  very  easy  to  comprehend.  She 
gives  us  one  side  of  her  character  in  her  correspondence  with 
Madame  de  Grantmesil,  and  another  side  of  it  in  her  own  home 
with  her  Italian  companion,  half  nurse,  half  chaperon. 

"  Monsieur  Louvier  is  indeed  very  courteous,"  said  Isaura, 
looking  up  from  the  flowers  with  the  dimpled  smile  we  have 
noticed.  "But  I  think,  madre,  that  we  should  do  well  to  stay 
at  home  on  Saturday ;  not  peacefully,  for  I  owe  you  your  re- 
venge at  euchre." 

"You  can't  mean  it,  Piccolo, !  "  exclaimed  the  Signora  in 
evident  consternation.  "  Stay  at  home  !  Why  stay  at  home  ? 
Euchre  is  very  well  when  there  is  nothing  else  to  do  ;  but 
change  is  pleasant  ;  le  bon  Dieu  likes  it : 

'  Ne  caldo  ne  gelo 
Resta  mai  in  cielo.' 

And  such  beautiful  ices  one  gets  at  M.  Louvier's.  Did  you 
taste  the  pistachio  ice?  What  fine  rooms,  and  so  well  lit  up  ! 
I  adore  light.  And  the  ladies  so  beautifully  dressed  ;  one  sees 
the  fashions.  Stay  at  home,  play  at  euchre  indeed  !  ficcola, 
you  cannot  be  so  cruel  to  yourself  ;  you  are  young." 

"  But,  dear  madre,  just  consider  :  we  are  invited  because  we 
are  considered  professional  singers  ;  your  reputation  as  such  is 
of  course  established,  mine  is  not  :  but  still  I  shall  be  asked  to 

sing  as  I  was  asked  before  ;  and  you  know  Dr.  C forbids 

me  to  do  so  except  to  a  very  small  audience  ;  and  it  is  so  un- 
gracious always  to  say  'No';  and  besides,  did  you  not  yourself 
say,  when  we  came  away  last  time  from  M.  Louvier's,  that  it 
was  very  dull ;  that  you  knew  nobody  ;  and  that  the  ladies  had 
such  superb  toilettes  that  you  felt  mortified — and — " 

"  Zitto  !  zitto  !  you  talk  idly,  Piccola,  very  idly.  I  was  mor- 
tified then  in  my  old  black  Lyons  silk  ;  but  have  I  not  bought 
since  then  my  beautiful  Greek  jacket — scarlet  and  gold  lace  ? 
And  why  should  I  buy  it  if  I  am  not  to  show  it  ?  " 

"But,  dear  madre,  the  jacket  is  certainly  very  handsome,  and 
will  make  an  effect  in  a  little  dinner  at  the  Savarins  or  Mrs. 


86  THE    PARISIANS. 

Morley's.  But  in  a  great  formal  reception  like  M.  Louvier's 
will  it  not  look — " 

"  Splendid  !  "  interrupted  the  Signora. 

"  But  singolare." 

"  So  much  the  better  ;  did  not  that  great  English  lady  wear 
such  a  jacket,  and  did  not  every  one  admire  her — piu  tosto  in- 
vidia  che  compassione  ?  " 

Isaura  sighed.  Now  the  jacket  of  the  Signora  was  a  subject 
of  disquietude  to  her  friend.  It  so  happened  that  a  young 
English  lady  of  the  highest  rank  and  the  rarest  beauty  had  ap- 
peared at  M.  Louvier's,  and  indeed  generally  in  the  beau  monde 
of  Paris,  in  a  Greek  jacket  that  became  her  very  much.  That 
jacket  had  fascinated,  at  M.  Louvier's,  the  eyes  of  the  Signora. 
But  of  this  Isaura  was  unaware.  The  Signora,  on  returning 
home  from  M.  Louvier's,  had  certainly  lamented  much  over 
the  mesquin  appearance  of  her  old-fashioned  Italian  habiliments 
compared  with  the  brilliant  toilette  of  the  gay  Parisiennes  ; 
and  Isaura — quite  woman  enough  to  sympathize  with  woman 
in  such  womanly  vanities — proposed  the  next  day  to  go  with 
the  Signora  to  one  of  the  principal  couturicres  of  Paris,  and 
adapt  the  Signora's  costume  to  the  fashions  of  the  place.  But 
the  Signora  having  predetermined  on  a  Greek  jacket,  and 
knowing  by  instinct  that  Isaura  would  be  disposed  to  thwart 
that  splendid  predilection,  had  artfully  suggested  that  it  would 
be  better  to  go  to  the  couturiere  with  Madame  Savarin,  as  being 
a  more  experienced  adviser — and  the  coupe  only  held  two. 

As  Madame  Savarin  was  about  the  same  age  as  the  Signora, 
and  dressed  as  became  her  years,  and  in  excellent  taste,  Isaura 
thought  this  an  admirable  suggestion  ;  and  pressing  into  her 
chaperon's  hand  a  billet  ds  banque  sufficient  to  re-equip  her  cap- 
ci-pie,  dismissed  the  subject  from  her  mind.  But  the  Signora 
was  much  too  cunning  to  submit  her  passion  for  the  Greek 
jacket  to  the  discouraging  comments  of  Madame  Savarin. 
Monopolizing  the  coupe",  she  became  absolute  mistress  of  the 
situation.  She  went  to  no  fashionable  couturicres-  She  went 
to  a  magasin  that  she  had  seen  advertised  in  the  Pctites  Affichcs 
as  supplying  superb  costumes  for  fancy-balls  and  amateur  per- 
formers in  private  theatricals.  She  returned  home  triumphant, 
with  a  jacket  still  more  dazzling  to  the  eye  than  that  of  the 
English  lady. 

When  Isaura  first  beheld  it,  she  drew  back  in  a  sort  of  super- 
stitious terror,  as  of  a  comet  or  other  blazing  portent. 

"  Cosa  stupenda  !  " — (stupendous  thing  !)  She  might  well  be 
dismayed  when  the  Signora  proposed  to  appear  thus  attired  in 


THE    PARISIANS.  87 

M.  Louvier's  salon.  What  might  be  admired  as  coquetry  of 
dress  in  a  young  beauty  of  rank  so  great  that  even  a  vulgarity 
in  her  would  be  called  distinguee,  was  certainly  an  audacious 
challenge  of  ridicule  in  the  elderly  ci-devant  music-teacher. 

But  how  could  Isatira,  how  can  any  one  of  common  humanity, 
say  to  a  woman  resolved  upon  wearing  a  certain  dress  :  "  You 
are  not  young  and  handsome  enough  for  that  ?  "  Isaura  could 
only  murmur  :  "  For  many  reasons  I  would  rather  stay  at  home, 
dear  madre." 

"  Ah  !  T  see  you  are  ashamed  of  me,"  said  the  Signora, 
in  softened  tones  ;  "very  natural.  When  the  nightingale  sings 
no  more,  she  is  only  an  ugly  brown  bird  ";  and  therewith  the 
Signora  Venosta  seated  herself  submissively,  and  began  to  cry. 

On  this  Isaura  sprang  up,  wound  her  arms  round  the  Sig- 
nora's  neck,  soothed  her  with  coaxing,  kissed  and  petted  her, 
and  ended  by  saying:  "Of  course  we  will  go";  and,  "but  let 
me  choose  you  another  dress — a  dark-green  velvet  trimmed 
with  blonde — blonde  becomes  you  so  well." 

"  No,  no,  I  hate  green  velvet ;  anybody  can  wear  that. 
Piccola,  I  am  not  clever  like  thee  ;  I  cannot  amuse  myself  like 
thee  with  books.  I  am  in  a  foreign  land.  I  have  a  poor  head, 
but  I  have  a  big  heart  (another  burst  of  tears);  and  that  big 
heart  is  set  on  my  beautiful  Greek  jacket." 

"  Dearest  madre"  said  Isaura,  half  weeping  too,  "  forgive 
me  :  you  are  right.  The  Greek  jacket  is  splendid  ;  I  shall  be 
so  pleased  to  see  you  wear  it.  Poor  tnadre,  so  pleased  to  think 
that  in  the  foreign  land  you  are  not  without  something  that 
pleases  you." 

CHAPTER  V. 

CONFORMABLY  with  his  engagement  to  meet  M.  Louvier, 
Alain  found  himself  on  the  day  and  at  the  hour  named  in  M. 
Gandrin's  salon.  On  this  occasion  Madame  Gandrin  did  not 
appear.  Her  husband  was  accustomed  to  give  diners  d'hommes. 
The  great  man  had  not  yet  arrived.  "  I  think,  Marquis,"  said 
M.  Gandrin,  "  that  you  will  not  regret  having  followed  my  ad- 
vice :  my  representations  have  disposed  Louvier  to  regard  you 
with  much  favor,  and  he  is  certainly  flattered  by  being  per- 
mitted to  make  your  personal  acquaintance." 

The  avoud  had  scarcely  finished  this  little  speech  when  M. 
Louvier  was  announced.  He  entered  with  a  beaming  smile, 
which  did  not  detract  from  his  imposing  presence.  His  flat* 


88  THE    PARISIANS. 

terers  had  told  him  that  he  had  a  look  of  Louis  Philippe  ; 
therefore  he  had  sought  to  imitate  the  dress  and  the  bonhomie 
of  that  monarch  of  the  middle  class.  He  wore  a  wig,  elabo- 
rately piled  up,  and  shaped  his  whiskers  in  royal  harmony  with 
the  royal  wig.  Above  all,  he  studied  that  social  frankness  of 
manner  with  which  the  able  sovereign  dispelled  awe  of  his 
presence  or  dread  of  his  astuteness.  Decidedly  he  was  a  man 
very  pleasant  to  converse  and  to  deal  with — so  long  as  there 
seemed  to  him  something  to  gain  and  nothing  to  lose  by  being 
pleasant.  He  returned  Alain's  bow  by  a  cordial  offer  of  both 
expansive  hands,  into  the  grasp  of  which  the  hands  of  the  aris- 
tocrat utterly  disappeared.  "  Charmed  to  make  your  ac- 
quaintance, Marquis ;  still  more  charmed  if  you  will  let  me  be 
useful  during  your  sejour  at  Paris.  Ma  foi,  excuse  my  blunt- 
ness,  but  you  are  a.  fort  beau  garcon.  Monsieur,  your  father 
was  a  handsome  man,  but  you  beat  him  hollow.  Gandrin,  my 
friend,  would  not  you  and  I  give  half  our  fortunes  for  one  year 
of  this  fine  fellow's  youth  spent  at  Paris  !  Peste!  What  love- 
letters  we  should  have,  with  no  need  to  buy  them  by  billets  de 
banque  /"  Thus  he  ran  on,  much  to  Alain's  confusion,  till 
dinner  was  announced.  Then  there  was  something  grandiose 
in  the  frank  bourgeois  style  wherewith  he  expanded  his  napkin 
and  twisted  one  end  into  his  waistcoat ;  it  was  so  manly  a  re- 
nunciation of  the  fashions  which  a  man  so  repandu  in  all  circles 
might  be  supposed  to  follow  ;  as  if  he  were  both  too  great  and 
too  much  in  earnest  for  such  frivolities.  He  was  evidently  a 
sincere  bon  vivant,  and  M.  Gandrin  had  no  less  evidently  taken 
all  requisite  pains  to  gratify  his  taste.  The  Montrachet  served 
with  the  oysters  was  of  precious  vintage.  That  vin  de  madere 
which  accompanied  the  potage  a  la  bisque  would  have  contented 
an  American.  And  how  radiant  became  Louvier's  face,  when 
amongst  the  entrees  he  came  upon  laitances  de  carpes!  "  The 
best  thing  in  the  world,"  he  cried,  "  and  one  gets  it  so  seldom 
since  the  old  Rocher  de  Cancale  has  lost  its  renown.  At 
private  houses  what  does  one  get  now — blanc  de  poulel — flavor- 
less trash.  After  all,  Gandrin,  when  we  lose  the  love-letters,  it 
is  some  consolation  that  laitances  de  carpes  and  sautes  de  foie 
gras  are  still  left  to  fill  up  the  void  in  our  hearts.  Marquis, 
heed  my  counsel ;  cultivate  betimes  the  taste  for  the  table  ;  that 
and  whist  are  the  sole  resources  of  declining  years.  You  never 
met  my  old  friend  Talleyrand — ah,  no  !  He  was  long  before 
your  time.  He  cultivated  both,  but  he  made  two  mistakes, 
No  man's  intellect  is  perfect  on  all  sides.  He  confined  him- 
self to  one  meal  a  day,  and  he  never  learned  to  play  well  at 


THE   PARISIANS.  89 

whist.  Avoid  his  errors,  my  young  friend — avoid  them. 
Gandrin,  I  guess  this  pine-apple  is  English,  it  is  superb." 

"You  are  right  ;  a  present  from  the  Marquis  of  H ." 

''Ah  !  instead  of  a  fee,  I  wager.  The  Marquis  gives  nothing 
for  nothing,  dear  man  !  Droll  people  the  English.  You  have 
never  visited  England,  I  presume,  cher  Rochebriant  ?" 

The  affable  financier  had  already  made  vast  progress  in 
familiarity  with  his  silent  fellow-guest. 

When  the  dinner  was  over  and  the  three  men  had  re-entered 
the  salon  for  coffee  and  liqueurs,  Gandrin  left  Louvier  and 
Alain  alone,  saying  he  was  going  to  his  cabinet  far  cigars  which 
he  could  recommend.  Then  Louvier,  lightly  patting  the  Mar- 
quis on  the  shoulder,  said  with  what  the  French  call  effusion  : 
"  My  dear  Rochebriant,  your  father  and  I  did  not  quite  under- 
stand each  other.  He  took  a  tone  of  grand  seigneur  that  some- 
times wounded  me  ;  and  I  in  turn  was  perhaps  too  rude  in 
asserting  my  rights — as  creditor,  shall  I  say  ?  No,  as  fellow- 
citizen  ;  and  Frenchmen  are  so  vain,  so  over-susceptible — fire 
up  at  a  word — take  offence  when  none  is  meant.  We  two,  my 
dear  boy,  should  be  superior  to  such  national  foibles.  Bref — • 
I  have  a  mortgage  on  your  lands.  Why  should  that  thought 
mar  our  friendship  ?  At  my  age,  though  I  am  not  yet  old,  one 
is  flattered  if  the  young  like  us  ;  pleased  if  we  can  oblige  them, 
and  remove  from  their  career  any  little  obstacle  in  its  way. 
Gandrin  tells  me  you  wish  to  consolidate  all  the  charges  on 
your  estate  into  one  on  a  lower  rate  of  interest.  Is  it  so  ?" 

"  I  am  so  advised,"  said  the  Marquis. 

"  And  very  rightly  advised  ;  come  and  talk  with  me  about  it 
some  day  next  week.  I  hope  to  have  a  large  sum  of  money  set 
free  in  a  few  days.  Of  course,  mortgages  on  land  don't  pay 
like  speculations  at  the  Bourse  ;  but  I  am  rich  enough  to 
please  myself.  We  will  see — we  will  see." 

Here  Gandrin  returned  with  the  cigars  ;  but  Alain  at  that 
time  never  smoked,  and  Louvier  excused  himself,  with  a  laugh 
and  a  sly  wink,  on  the  plea  that  he  was  going  to  pay  his 
respects — as  doubtless  that  joli  garfon  was  going  to  do,  like- 
wise— to  a  belle  dame  who  did  not  reckon  the  smell  of  tobacco 
among  the  perfumes  of  Houbigant  or  Arabia. 

"  Meanwhile,"  added  Louvier,  turning  to  Gandrin,  "  I  have 
something  to  say  to  you  on  business  about  the  contract  for  that 
new  street  of  mine.  No  hurry  ;  after  our  yourfg  friend  has 
gone  to  his  '  assignation.'  " 

Alain  could  not  misinterpret  the  hint ;  and  in  a  few  moments 
took  leave  of  his  host,  more  surprised  than  disappointed  that 


90  THE    PARISIANS. 

the  financier  had  not  invited  him,  as  Graham  had  assumed  he 
would,  to  his  soiree  the  following  evening. 

When  Alain  was  gone,  Louvier's  jovial  manner  disappeared 
also,  and  became  bluffly  rude  rather  than  bluntly  cordial. 

"Gandrin,  what  did  you  mean  by  saying  that  that  young 
man  was  no  muscadin  ?  Muscadin — aristocrate — offensive  from 
top  to  toe." 

"You  amaze  me  !     You  seemed  to  take  to  him  so  cordially." 

"And  pray,  were  you  too  blind  to  remark  with  what  cold  re- 
serve he  responded  to  my  condescensions?  How  he  winced 
when  I  called  him  Rochebriant !  How  he  colored  when  I 
called  him  'dear  boy'  !  These  aristocrats  think  we  ought  to 
thank  them  on  our  knees  when  they  take  our  money,  and" — 
here  Louvier's  face  darkened — "seduce  our  women." 

"  Monsieur  Louvier,  in  all  France  I  do  not  know  a  greater 
aristocrat  than  yourself.'' 

I  don't  know  whether  M.  Gandrin  meant  that  speech  as  a 
compliment,  but  M.  Louvier  took  it  as  such,  laughed  compla- 
cently, and  rubbed  his  hands.  "Ay,  ay,  millionnaires  are  the 
aristocrats,  for  they  have  power,  as  my  beau  Marquis  will  soon 
find.  I  must  bid  you  good-night.  Of  course  I  shall  see  Ma- 
dame Gandrin  and  yourself  to-morrow.  Prepare  for  a  motley 
gathering — lots  of  democrats  and  foreigners,  with  artists  and  au- 
thors, and  such  creatures." 

"Is  that  the  reason  why  you  did  not  invite  the  Marquis?" 

"  To  be  sure  ;  I  would  not  shock  so  pure  a  Legitimist  by 
contact  with  the  sons  of  the  people,  and  make  him  still  colder 
to  myself.  No  ;  when  he  comes  to  my  house  he  shall  meet 
lions  and  inveurs  of  the  haut  ton,  who  will  play  into  my  hands 
by  teaching  him  how  to  ruin  himself  in  the  quickest  manner 
and  in  \.\\Q  genre  Rtfgence.  Bon  soir,  monvieux" 


CHAPTER  VI. 

THE  next  night  Graham  in  vain  looked  round  for  Alain  in 
M.  Louvier's  salons,  and  missed  his  high-bred  mien  and  melan- 
choly countenance.  M.  Louvier  had  been  for  some  four  years  a 
childless  widower,  but  his  receptions  were  not  the  less  numer- 
ously attended,  nor  his  establishment  less  magnificently  monte 
for  the  absence  of  a  presiding  lady  :  very  much  the  contrary  ; 
it  was  noticeable  how  much  he  had  increased  his  status  and 
prestige  as  a  social  personage  since  the  death  of  his  unlament- 
ed  spouse. 


THE    PARISIANS.  QI 

To  say  truth,  she  had  been  rather  a  heavy  drag  on  his  tri- 
umphal car.  She  had  been  the  heiress  of  a  man  who  had 
amassed  a  great  deal  of  money  ;  not  in  the  higher  walks  of 
commerce,  but  in  a  retail  trade. 

Louvier  himself  was  the  son  of  a  rich  money-lender  ;  he  had 
entered  life  with  an  ample  fortune  and  an  intense  desire  to  be 
admitted  into  those  more  brilliant  circles  in  which  fortunes  can 
be  dissipated  with  eclat.  He  might  not  have  attained  this  ob- 
ject but  for  the  friendly  countenance  of  a  young  noble  who 
was  then 

"  The  glass  of  fashion  and  the  mould  of  form." 

But  this  young  noble,  of  whom  later  we  shall  hear  more, 
came  suddenly  to  grief  ;  and  when  the  money-lender's  son  lost 
that  potent  protector,  the  dandies,  previously  so  civil,  showed 
him  a  very  cold  shoulder. 

Louvier  then  became  an  ardent  democrat,  and  recruited  the 
fortune  he  had  impaired  by  the  aforesaid  marriage,  launched 
into  colossal  speculations,  and  became  enormously  rich.  His 
aspirations  for  social  rank  now  revived,  but  his  wife-  sadly  in- 
terfered with  them.  She  was  thrifty  by  nature  ;  sympathized 
little  with  her  husband's  genius  for  accumulation  ;  always  said 
he  would  end  in  a  hospital ;  hated  Republicans  ;  despised  au- 
thors and  artists  ;  and  by  the  ladies  of  the  beau  monde  was 
pronounced  common  and  vulgar. 

So  long  as  she  lived,  it  was  impossible  for  Louvier  to  realize 
his  ambition  of  having  one  of  the  salons  which  at  Paris  estab- 
lish celebrity  and  position.  He  could  not  then  command 
those  advantages  of  wealth  which  he  especially  coveted.  He 
was  eminently  successful  in  doing  this  now.  As  soon  as  she 
was  safe  in  Pere  la  Chaise,  he  enlarged  his  hotel  by  the  pur- 
chase and  annexation  of  an  adjoining  house  ;  redecorated 
and  refurnished  it,  and  in  this  task  displayed,  it  must  be  said 
to  his  credit,  or  to  that  of  the  administrators  he  selected  for 
the  purpose,  a  nobleness  of  taste  rarely  exhibited  nowadays. 
His  collection  of  pictures, was  not  large,  and  consisted  exclu- 
sively of  the  French  school,  ancient  and  modern,  for  in  all 
tilings  Louvier  affected  the  patriot.  But  each  of  those  pictures 
was  a  gem  ;  such  Watteaus,  such  Greuzes,  such  landscapes  by 
Patel,  and,  above  all,  such  masterpieces  by  Ingres,  Horace 
Vernet,  and  Delaroche,  were  worth  all  the  doubtful  originals 
of  Flemish  and  Italian  art  which  make  the  ordinary  boast  of 
private  collectors. 

These  pictures  occupied  two  rooms  of  moderate  size,  built 


92        v  THE    PARISIANS. 

for  their  reception,  and  lighted  from  above.  The  great  salon 
to  which  they  led  contained  treasures  scarcely  less  precious  ; 
the  walls  were  covered  with  the  richest  silks  which  the  looms  of 
Lyons  could  produce.  Every  piece  of  furniture  here  was  a  work 
of  art  in  its  way  :  console-tables  of  Florentine  mosaic,  inlaid 
with  pearl  and  lapis-lazuli  ;  cabinets  in  which  the  exquisite 
designs  of  the  renaissance  were  carved  in  ebony  ;  colossal 
vases  of  Russian  malachite,  but  wrought  by  French  artists. 
The  very  nick-nacks  scattered  carelessly  about  the  room  might 
have  been  admired  in  the  cabinets  of  the  Palazzo  Pitti.  Beyond 

this  room  lay  the  salle  de  dame,  its  ceiling  painted  by , 

supported  by  white  marble  columns,  the  glazed  balcony  and 
the  angles  of  the  room  filled~with  tiers  of  exotics.  In  the 
dining-room,  on  the  same  floor,  on  the  other  side  of  the  land- 
ing-place, were  stored  in  glazed  buffets,  not  only  vessels  and 
salvers  of  plate,  silver  and  gold,  but,  more  costly  still,  match- 
less specimens  of  Sevres  and  Limoges,  and  mediaeval  varieties 
of  Venetian  glass.  On  the  ground  floor,  which  opened  on  the 
lawn  of  a  large  garden,  Louvier  had  his  suite  of  private  apart- 
ments, furnished,  as  he  said,  "simply,  according  to  English 
notions  of  comfort."  Englishmen  would  have  said,  "  accord- 
ing to  French  notions  of  luxury."  Enough  of  these  details, 
which  a  writer  cannot  give  without  feeling  himself  somewhat 
vulgarized  in  doing  so,  but  without  a  loose  general  idea  of 
which  a  reader  would  not  have  an  accurate  conception  of 
something  not  vulgar — of  something  grave,  historical,  possibly 
tragical,  the  existence  of  a  Parisian  millionnaire  at  the  date  of 
this  narrative. 

The  evidence  of  wealth  was  everywhere  manifest  at  M. 
Louvier's,  but  it  was  everywhere  refined  by  an  equal  evidence 
of  taste.  The  apartments  devoted  to"  hospitality  ministered  to 
the  delighted  study  of  artists,  to  whom  free  access  was  given, 
and  of  whom  two  or  three  might  be  seen  daily  in  the  "show- 
rooms," copying  pictures  or  taking  sketches  of  rare  articles  of 
furniture  or  effects  for  palatian  interiors. 

Among  the  things  which  rich  English  visitors  of  Paris  most 
coveted  to  see  was  M.  Louvier's  hotel  ;  and  few  among  the 
richest  left  it  without  a  sigh  of  envy  and  despair.  Only  in  such 
London  houses  as  belong  to  a  Sutherland  or  a  Holford  could 
our  metropolis  exhibit  a  splendor  as  opulent  and  a  taste  as 
refined. 

M.  Louvier  had  his  set  evenings  for  popular  assemblies.  At 
these  were  entertained  the  Liberals  of  every  shade,  from  tricolor 
to  rouge,  with  the  artists  and  writers  most  in  vogue,  pek-mele 


THE    PARISIANS.  93 

with  decorated  diplomatists,  ex-ministers,  Orleanists,  and 
Republicans,  distinguished  foreigners,  plutocrats  of  the  Bourse, 
and  lions  male  and  female  from  the  arid  nurse  of  that  race,  the 
Chaussee  d'Antin.  Of  his  more  select  reon-ions  something  will 
be  said  later. 

"  And  how  does  this  poor  Paris  metamorphosed  please 
Monsieur  Vane?"  asked  a  Frenchman  with  a  handsome,  intel- 
ligent countenance,  very  carefully  dressed,  though  in  a  some- 
what bygone  fashion,  and  carrying  off  his  tenth  lustrum  with 
an  air  too  sprightly  to  evince  any  sense  of  the  weight. 

This  gentleman,  the  Vicomte  de  Breze,  was  of  good  birth, 
and  had  a  legitimate  right  to  his  title  of  Vicomte,  which  is 
more  than  can  be  said  of  many  vicomtes  one  meets  at  Paris. 
He  had  no  other  property,  however,  than  a  principal  share  in 
an  influential  journal,  to  which  he  was  a  lively  and  sparkling 
contributor.  In  his  youth,  under  the  reign  of  Louis  Philippe, 
he  had  been  a  chief  among  literary  exquisites,  and  Balzac-was 
said  to  have  taken  him  more  than  once  as  his  model  for  those 
brilliant  young  vauriens  who  figure  in  the  great  novelist's 
comedy  of  "  Human  Life."  The  Vicomte's  fashion  expired 
with  the  Orleanist  dynasty. 

"  Is  it  possible,  my  dear  Vicomte,"  answered  Graham,  "  not 
to  be  pleased  with  a  capital  so  marvellously  embellished  ?  " 

"  Embellished  it  may  be  to  foreign  eyes,"  said  the  Vicomte, 
sighing,  "  but  not  improved  to  the  taste  of  a  Parisian  like  me. 
I  miss  the  dear  Paris  of  old  ;  the  streets  associated  with  my 
beaux  jours  are  no  more.  Is  there  not  something  drearily 
monotonous  in  these  interminable  perspectives?  How  fright- 
fully the  way  lengthens  before  one's  eyes  !  In  the  twists  and 
curves  of  the  old  Paris  one  was  relieved  from  the  pain  of  seeing 
how  far  one  had  to  go  from  one  spot  to  another;  each  tortuous 
street  haA  a  separate  idiosyncrasy  ;  what  picturesque  diversities, 
what  interesting  recollections — all  swept  away  !  MonDieu! 
And  what  for  ?  Miles  of  florid  fafades  staring  and  glaring  at 
one  with  goggle-eyed,  pitiless  windows.  House-rents  trebled  ; 
and  the  consciousness  that,  if  you  venture  to  grumble,  under- 
ground railways,  like  concealed  volcanoes,  can  burst  forth  on 
you  at  any  moment  with  an  eruption  of  bayonets  and  muskets. 
This  maudit  empire  seeks  to  keep  its  hold  on  France  much  as 
a  grand  seigneur  seeks  to  enchain  a  nymph  of  the  ballet,  tricks 
her  out  in  finery  and  baubles,  and  insures  her  infidelity  the 
moment  he  fails  to  satisfy  her  whims." 

"  Vicomte,"  answered  Graham,  "  I  have  had  the  honor  to 
know  you  since  I  was  a  small  boy  at  the  preparatory  school 


94  THE    PARISIANS. 

home  for  the  holidays,  and  you  were  a  guest  at  my  father's 
country-house.  You  were  then  fete  as  one  of  the  most  prom- 
ising writers  among  the  young  men  of  the  day,  especially 
favored  by  the  princes  of  the  reigning  family.  I  shall  never 
forget  the  impression  made  on  me  by  your  brilliant  appearance 
and  your  no  less  brilliant  talk." 

"  Ah  !  ces  beaux  jours !  ce  bon  Louis  Philippe,  ce  cher  petit 
Joimnlle"  sighed  the  Vicomte. 

"  But  at  that  day  you  compared  le  bon  Louis  Philippe  to 
Robert  Macaire.  You  described  all  his  sons,  including,  no 
doubt,  ce  cher  petit  Joinville,  in  terms  of  resentful  contempt,  as 
so  many  plausible  gamins  whom  Robert  Macaire  was  training 
to  cheat  the  public  in  the  interest  of  the  family  firm.  I  re- 
member my  father  saying  to  you  in  answer  :  '  No  royal  house  in 
Europe  has  more  sought  to  develop  the  literature  of  an  epoch, 
and  to  signalize  its  representatives  by  social' respect  and  official 
honors,  than  that  of  the  Orleans  dynasty;  you,  M.  de  Breze, 
do  but  imitate  your  elders  in  seeking  to  destroy  the  dynasty 
under  which  you  flourish  ;  should  you  succeed,  you  hommes  de 
plume  will  be  the  first  sufferers  and  the  loudest  complainers.'  " 

"  Cher  Monsieur  Vane,"  said  the  Vicomte,  smiling  compla- 
cently, "  your  father  did  me  great  honor  in  classing  me  with 
Victor  Hugo,  Alexandre  Dumas,  Emile  de  Girardin,  and  the 
other  stars  of  the  Orleanist  galaxy,  including  our  friend  here, 
M.  Savarin.  A  very  superior  man  was  your  father." 

"And,"  said  Savarin,  who,  being  an  Orleanist,  had  listened 
to  Graham's  speech  with  an  approving  smile  ;  "And  if  I  re- 
member right,  my  dear  De  Breze,  no  one  was  more  brilliantly 
severe  than  yourself  on  poor  De  Lamartine  and  the  Republic 
that  succeeded  Louis  Philippe  ;  no  one  more  emphatically  ex- 
pressed the  yearning  desire  for  another  Napoleon  to  restore 
order  at  home  and  renown  abroad.  Now  you  have  got  another 
Napoleon." 

"  And  I  want  change  for  my  Napoleon,"  said  De  Breze, 
laughing. 

"My  dear  Vicomte,"  said  Graham,  "one  thing  we  may  all 
grant,  that  in  culture  and  intellect  you  are  far  superior  to  the 
mass  of  your  fellow-Parisians  ;  that  you  are  therefore  a  favor- 
able type  of  their  political  character." 

'''Ah,  nwn  cher,  vous  £tes  trop  aimable." 

"  And  therefore  I  venture  to  say  this,  if  the  archangel  Gabriel 
were  permitted  to  descend  to  Paris  and  form  the  best  govern- 
ment for  France  that  the  wisdom  of  seraph  could  devise,  it 
would  not  be  two  years — I  doubt  if  it  would  be  six  months — 


THE    PARISIANS.  95 


before  out  of  this  Paris,  which  you  call  the  Foyer  des 
would  emerge  a  powerful  party,  adorned  by  yourself  and  other 
homines  de  plume,  in  favor  of  a  revolution  for  the  benefit  of 
ce  bon  Satan  and  ce  cher  petit  Beelzebub." 

"What  a  pretty  vein  of  satire  you  have,  mon  cfier/"sa.\d 
the  Vicomte  good-humoredly  ;  "  there  is  a  sting  of  truth  in 
your  witticism.  Indeed,  I  must  send  you  some  articles  of  mine 
in  which  I  have  said  much  the  same  thing  —  Ics  beaux  esprits  se 
rencontrent.  The  fault  of  us  French  is  impatience,  desire  of 
change  ;  but  then  it  is  that  desire  which  keeps  the  world  going 
and  retains  our  place  at  the  head  of  it.  However,  at  this  time 
we  are  all  living  too  fast  for  our  money  to  keep  up  with  it,  and 
too  slow  for  our  intellect  not  to  flag.  We  vie  with  each  other 
on  the  road  to  ruin,  for  in  literature  all  the  old  paths  to  fame 
are  shut  up."  . 

Here  a  tall  gentleman,  with  whom  the  Vicomte  had  been  con- 
versing before  he  accosted  Vane,  and  who  had  remained  beside 
])e  Breze'  listening  in  silent  attention  to  this  colloquy,  inter- 
posed, speaking  in  the  slow  voice  of  one  accustomed  to  meas- 
ure his  words,  and  with  a  slight  but  unmistakable  German  ac- 
cent :  "  There  is  that,  M.  de  Breze,  which  makes  one  think 
gravely  of  what  yo'u  say  so  lightly.  Viewing  things  with  the 
unprejudiced  eyes  of  a  foreigner,  I  recognize  much  for  which 
France  should  be  grateful  to  the  Emperor.  Under  his  sway 
her  material  resources  have  been  marvellously  augmented  ;  her 
commerce  has  been  placed  by  the  treaty  with  England  on 
sounder  foundations,  and  is  daily  exhibiting  richer  life  ;  her 
agriculture  has  made  a  prodigious  advance  wherever  it  has  al- 
lowed room  for  capitalists,  and  escaped  from  the  curse  of  petty 
allotments  and  peasant  proprietors  —  a  curse  which  would  have 
ruined  any  country  less  blessed  by  Nature  ;  turbulent  factions 
have  been  quelled  ;  internal  order  maintained  ;  the  external 
prestige  of  France,  up  at  least  to  the  date  of  the  Mexican  war, 
increased  to  an  extent  that  might  satisfy  even  a  Frenchman's 
amour  propre  ;  and  her  advance  in  civilization  has  been  mani- 
fested by  the  rapid  creation  of  a  naval  power  which  should  put 
England  on  her  mettle.  But,  on  the  other  hand  —  " 

"  Ay,  on  the  other  hand,"  said  ^he  Vicomte.     " 

"  On  the  other  hand  there  are  in  the  imperial  system  two 
causes  of  decay  and  of  rot  silently  at  work.  They  may  not  be 
the  faults  of  the  Emperor,  but  they  are  such  misfortunes  as 
may  cause  the  fall  of  the  Empire.  The  first  is  an  absolute  di- 
vorce between  the  political  system  and  the  intellectual  culture 
of  the  nation.  The  throne  and  the  system  rest  on  universal 


96  THE    PARISIANS. 

suffrage  ;  on  a  suffrage  which  gives  to  classes  the  most  ignorant 
a  power  that  preponderates  over  all  the  healthful  elements  of 
knowledge.  It  is  the  tendency  of  all  ignorant  multitudes  to 
personify  themselves,  as  it  were,  in  one  individual.  They  can- 
not comprehend  you  when  you  argue  for  a  principle  ;  they  do 
comprehend  you  when  you  talk  of  a  name.  The  Emperor  Na- 
poleon is  to  them  a  name  ;  and  the  prefects  and  officials  who 
influence  their  votes  are  paid  for  incorporating  all  principles  in 
the  shibboleth  of  that  single  name.  You  have  thus  sought  the 
well-spring  of  a  political  system  in  the  deepest  stratum  of  pop- 
ular ignorance.  To  rid  popular  ignorance  of  its  normal  revo- 
lutionary bias,  the  rural  peasants  are  indoctrinatetl  with  the 
conservatism  that  comes  from  the  fear  which  appertains  to 
property.  They  have  their  roods  of  land  or  their  shares  in  a 
national  loan.  Thus  you  estrange  the  crassitude  of  an  ignorant 
democracy  still  more  from  the  intelligence  of  the  educated 
classes  by  combining  it  with  the  most  selfish  and  abject  of  all 
the  apprehensions  that  are  ascribed  to  aristocracy  and  wealth. 
What  is  thus  embedded  in  the  depths  of  your  society  makes  it- 
self shown  on  the  surface.  Napoleon  III.  has  been  compared 
to  Augustus  ;  and  there  are  many  startling  similitudes  between 
them  in  character  and  in  fate.  Each  succeeds  to  the  heritage 
of  a  great  name  that  had  contrived  to  unite  autocracy  with 
the  popular  cause.  Each  subdued  all  rival  competitors,  and 
inaugurated  despotic  rule  in  the  name  of  freedom.  Each  min- 
gled enough  of  sternness  with  ambitious  will  to  stain  with  blood- 
shed the  commencement  of  his  power  ;  but  it  would  be  an 
absurd  injustice  to  fix  the  same  degree  of  condemnation  on  the 
coup  d'etat  as  humanity  fixes  on  the  earlier  cruelties  of  Augustus. 
Each,  once  firm  in  his  seat,  became  mild  and  clement:  Augus- 
tus perhaps  from  policy,  Napoleon  III.  from  a  native  kindli- 
ness of  disposition  which  no  fair  critic  of  character  can  fail  to 
acknowledge.  Enough  of  similitudes  ;  now  for  one  salient  dif- 
ference. Observe  how  earnestly  Augustus  strove,  and  how 
completely  he  succeeded  in  the  task,  to  rally  round  him  all  the 
leading  intellects  in  every  grade  and  of  every  party  :  the  fol- 
lowers of  Antony,  the  friends  of  Brutus  ;  every  great  captain, 
every  great  statesman,  every  great  writer,  every  man  who  could 
lend  a  ray  of  mind  to  his  own  Julian  constellation,  and  make 
the  age  of  Augustus  an  era  in  the  annals  of  human  intellect  and 
genius.  But  this  has  not  been  the  good  fortune  of  your  Em- 
peror. The  result  of  his  system  has  been  the  suppression  of 
intellect  in  every  department.  He  has  rallied  round  him  not 
one  great  statesman  ;  his  praises  are  hymned  by  not  one  great 


THE    PARISIANS.  97 

noet.  The  cclebritds  of  a  former  day  stand  aloof  ;  or,  preferring 
exile  to  constrained  allegiance,  assail  him  with  unremitting  mis- 
siles from  their  asylum  in  foreign  shores.  His  reign  is  sterile 
of  new  cttebrite's.  The  few  that  arise  enlist  themselves  against 
him.  Whenever  he  shall  venture  to  give  full  freedom  to  the 
press  and  to  the  legislature,  the  intellect'  thus  suppressed  or 
thus  hostile  will  burst  forth  in  collected  volume.  His  partisans 
have  not  been  trained  and  disciplined  to  meet  such  assailants. 
They  will  be  as  weak  as  no  doubt  they  will  be  violent.  And 
the  worst  is,  that  the  intellect  thus  rising  in  mass  against  him 
will  be  warped  and  distorted,  like  captives  who,  being  kept  in 
chains,  exercise  their  limbs,  on  escaping,  in  vehement  Jumps, 
without  definite  object.  The  directors  of  emancipated  opinion 
may  thus  be  terrible  enemies  to  the  Imperial  Government,  but 
they  will  be  very  unsafe  councillors  to  France.  Concurrently 
with  this  divorce  between  the  Imperial  system  and  the  national 
intellect — a  divorce  so  complete  that  even  your  salons  have  lost 
their  wit,  and  even  your  caricatures  their  point — a  corruption 
of  manners  which  the  Empire,  I  own,  did  not  originate,  but  in- 
-herit,  has  become  so  common  that  every  one  owns  and  nobody 
blames  it.  The  gorgeous  ostentation  of  the  Court  has  perverted 
the  habits  of  the  people.  The  intelligence  obstructed  from 
other  vents  betakes  itself  to  speculating  for  a  fortune  ;  and  the 
greed  of  gain  and  the  passion  for  show  are  sapping  the  noblest 
elements  of  the  old  French  manhood.  Public  opinion  stamps 
with  no  opprobrium  a  minister  or  favorite  who  profits  by  a  job  ; 
and  I  fear  that  you  will  find  that  jobbing  pervades  all  your  ad- 
ministrative departments." 

"  All  very  true,"  said  De  Breze,  with  a  shrug  of  the  shoul- 
ders and  in  a  tone  of  levity  that  seemed  to  ridicule  the  asser- 
tion he  volunteered  ;  "Virtue  and  Honor  banished  from  courts 
and  salons  and  the  cabinets  of  authors,  ascend  to  fairer  heights 
in  the  attics  of  ouvriers." 

"  The  ouvners,  ouvriers  of  Paris !  "  cried  this  terrible  Ger- 
man. 

"Ay,  Monsieur  le  Comte,  what  can  you  say  against  our 
ouvners  ?  A  German  count  cannot  condescend  to  learn  any- 
thing about  ces  petites  gens." 

"  Monsieur,"  replied  the  German,  "  in  the  eyes  of  a  states- 
man there  are  no  petites  gens,  and  in  those  of  a  philosopher  no 
petites  choses.  We  in  Germany  have  too  many  difficult  prob- 
lems affecting  our  working  classes  to  solve,  not  to  have  in- 
duced me  to  glean  all  the  information  I  can  as  to  the  ouvriers 
of  Paris.  They  have  among  them  men  of  aspirations  as  noble 


98  THE    PARISIANS. 

as  can  animate  the  souls'of  philosophers  and  poets,  perhaps  not 
the  less  noble  because  common-sense  and  experience  cannot 
follow  their  flight.  But,  as  a  body,  the  ouvriers  of  Paris  have 
not  been  elevated  in  political  morality  by  the  benevolent  aim 
of  the  Emperor  to  find  them  ample  work  and  good  wages  in- 
dependent of  the  natural  laws  that  regulate  the  markets  of 
labor.  Accustomed  thus  to  consider  the  State  bound  to  main- 
tain them,  the  moment  the  State  fails  in  that  impossible  task, 
they  will  accommodate  their  honesty  to  a  rush  upon  property 
under  the  name  of  social  reform.  Have  you  not  noticed  how 
largely  increased  within  the"  last  few  years  is  the  number  of 
those  who  cry  out,  '  La  Propriety  cest  le  vol'  ?  Have  you- con- 
sidered the  rapid  growth  of  the  International  Association  ?  I 
do  not  say  that  for  all  these  evils  the  Empire  is  exclusively 
responsible.  To  a  certain  degree  they  are  found  in  all  rich 
communities,  especially  where  democracy  is  more  or  less  in  the 
ascendant.  To  a  certain  extent  they  exist  in  the  large  towns 
of  Germany  ;  they  are  conspicuously  increasing  in  England  ; 
they  are  acknowledged  to  be  dangerous  in  the  United  States  of 
America;  they  are,  I  am  told  on  good  authority,  making  them- 
selves visible  with  the  spread  of  civilization  in  Russia.  But 
under  the  French  Empire  they  have  become  glaringly  rampant, 
and  I  venture  to  predict  that  the  day  is  not  far  off  when  the 
rot  at  work  throughout  all  layers  and  strata  of  French  society 
will  insure  a  fall  of  the  fabric  at  the  sound  of  which  the  world 
will  ring. 

"  There  is  many  a  fair  and  stately  tree  which  continues  to  throw 
out  its  leaves  and  rear  its  crest  till  suddenly  the  wind  smites  it, 
and  then,  and  not  till  then,  the  trunk  which  seems  so  solid  is 
found  to  be  but  the  rind  to  a  mass  of  crumbled  powder." 

"  Monsieur  le  Comte,"  said  the  Vicomte,  "  you  are  a  severe 
critic  and  a  lugubrious  prophet.  But  a  German  is  so  safe  from 
revolution  that  he  takes  alarm  at  the  stir  of  movement  which  is 
the  normal  state  of  the  French  esprit." 

"  French  esprit  may  soon  evaporate  into  Parisian  bctise.  As 
to  Germany  being  safe  from  revolution-,  allow  me  to  repeat  a 
saying  of  Goethe's — but  has  M.  le  Vicomte  ever  heard  of 
Goethe  ?  " 

"Goethe,  of  course — trls  joli  Jcrivain" 

"  Goethe  said  to  some  one  who  was  making  much  the  same 
remark  as  yourself  :  '  We  Germans  are  in  a  state  of  revolution 
now,  but  we  do  things  so  slowly  that  it  will  be  a  hundred  years 
before  we  Germans  shall  find  it  out.  But  when  completed,  it 
will  be  the  greatest  revolution  society  has  yet  seen,  and  will  last 


THE    PARISIANS.  99 

like  the  other  revolutions  that,  beginning,  scarce  noticed,  in 
Germany,  have  transformed  the  world." 

"  Diable,  M.  le  Comte  !  Germans  transformed  the  world  \ 
What  revolutions  do  you  speak  of?" 

"The  invention  of  gunpowder,  the  invention  of  printing, 
and  the  expansion  of  a  monk's  quarrel  with  his  Pope  into  the 
Lutheran  revolution." 

Here  the  German  paused,  and  asked  -the  Vicomte  to  intro- 
duce him  to  Vane,  which  De  Breze  did  by  the  title  of  Count 
von  Rudesheim.  On  hearing  Vane's  name,  the  Count  inquired 
if  lie  were  related  to  the  orator  and  statesman,  George  Graham 
Vane,  whose  opinions,  uttered  in  Parliament,  were  still  author- 
itative among  German  thinkers.  This  compliment  to  his  de- 
ceased father  immensely  gratified,  but  at  the  same  time  con- 
siderably surprised,  the  Englishman.  His  father,  no  doubt, 
had  been  a  man  of  much  influence  in  the  British  House  of 
Commons — a  very  weighty  speaker,  and  while  in  office,  a  first- 
rate  administrator  ;  but  Englishmen  know  what  a  House  of 
Commons  reputation  is  ;  how  fugitive,  how  little  cosmopolitan  ; 
and  that  a  German  count  should  ever  have  heard  of  his  father 
delighted,  but  amazed  him.  In  stating  himself  to  be  the  son 
of  George  Graham  Vane,  he  intimated  not  only  the  delight,  but 
the  amaze,  with  the  frank  savoir  vivre  which  was  one  of  his 
salient  characteristics. 

"  Sir,"  replied  the  German,  speaking  in  very  correct  En- 
glish, but  still  with  his  national  accent,  "every  German  reared 
to  political  service  studies  England  as  the  school  for  practical 
thought  distinct  from  impracticable  theories.  Long  may  you 
allow  us  to  do  so ;  only  excuse  me  one  remark  ;  never  let  the 
selfish  element  of  the  practical  supersede  the  generous  element. 
Your  father  never  did  so  in  his  speeches,  and  therefore  we  ad- 
mired him.  At  the  present  day  we  don't  so  much  care  to  study 
English  speeches.  They  may  be  insular,  they  are  not  Euro- 
pean. I  honor  England  ;  Heaven  grant  that  you  may  not  be 
making  sad  mistakes  in  the  belief  that  you  can  long  remain 
England  if  you  cease  to  be  European."  Herewith  the  German 
bowed,  not  uncivilly— on  the  contrary,  somewhat  ceremoni- 
ously— and  disappeared  with  a  Prussian  Secretary  of  Embassy, 
whose  arm  he  linked  in  his  own,  into  a  room  less  frequented. 

"  Vicomte,  who  and  what  is  your  German  count  ?  "  asked 
Vane. 

"  A  solemn  pedant,"  answered  the  lively  Vicomte  ;  "  a  Ger« 
man  count,  que  voulez-voits  de plus?  " 


100  THE    PARISIANS. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

A  LITTLE  later  Graham  found  himself  alone  amongst  the 
crowd.  Attracted  by  the  sound  of  music,  he  had  strayed  into 
one  of  the  rooms  whence  it  came,  and  in  which,  though  his 
range  of  acquaintance  at  Paris  was,  for  an  Englishman,  large 
and  somewhat  miscellaneous,  he  recognized  no  familiar  coun- 
tenance. A  lady  was  playing  the  pianoforte — playing  remark- 
ably well — with  accurate  science,  with  that  equal  lightness  and 
strength  of  finger  which  produces  brilliancy  of  execution.  But 
to  appreciate  her  music  one  should  be  musical  one's  self.  It 
wanted  the  charm  that  fascinates  the  uninitiated.  The  guests 
in  the  room  were  musical  connoisseurs,  a  class  with  whom 
Graham  Vane  had  nothing  in  common.  Even  if  he  had  been 
more  capable  of  enjoying  the  excellence  of  the  player's  per- 
formance, the  glance  he  directed  towards  her  would  have 
sufficed  to  chill  him  into  indifference.  She  was  not  young,'  and 
with  prominent  features  and  puckered  skin,  was  twisting  her 
face  into  strange  sentimental  grimaces,  as  if  terribly  overcome 
by  the  beauty  and  pathos  of  her  own  melodies.  To  add  to 
Vane's  displeasure,  she  was  dressed  in  a  costume  wholly 
antagonistic  to  his  views  of  the  becoming;  in  a  Greek  jacket 
of  gold  and  scarlet,  contrasted  by  a  Turkish  turban. 

Muttering  "What  she-mountebank  have  we  here?"  he  sank 
into  a  chair  behind  the  door,  and  fell  into  an  absorbed  revery. 
From  this  he  was  aroused  by  the  cessation  of  the  music,  and 
the  hum  of  subdued  approbation  by  which  it  was  followed. 
Above  the  hum  swelled  the  imposing  voice  of  M.  Louvier,  as 
he  rose  from  a  seat  on  the  other  side  of  the  piano,  by  which  his 
bulky  form  had  been  partially  concealed. 

"  Bravo  !  Perfectly  played — excellent  !  Can  we  not  per- 
suade your  charming  young  countrywoman  to  gratify  us  even 
by  a  single  song  ?  "  Then  turning  aside  and  addressing  some 
one  else  invisible  to  Graham,  he  said,  "  Does  that  tyrannical 
doctor  still  compel  you  to  silence,  Mademoiselle?" 

A  voice  so  sweetly  modulated,  that  if  there  were  any  sarcasm 
in  the  words  it  was  lost  in  the  softness  of  pathos,  answered  : 
"Nay,  M.  Louvier,  he  rather  overtasks  the  words  at  my  com- 
mand in  thankfulness  to  those  who,  like  yourself,  so  kindly 
regard  me  as  something  else  than  a  singer." 

It  was  not  the  she-mountebank  who  thus  spoke.  Graham 
rose  and  looked  round  with  instinctive  curiosity.  He  met  the 
face  that  he  said  had  haunted  him.  She  too  had  risen,  stand- 


THE    PARISIANS.  IOI 

ing  rieaf  the  piano,  with  one  hand  tenderly  resting  on  the  she- 
mountebank's  scarlet  and  gilded  shoulder — the  face  that  haunted 
him,  and  yet  with  a  difference.  There  was  a  faint  blush  on 
the  clear,  pale  cheek,  a  soft  yet  playful  light  in  the  grave,  dark- 
blue  eyes,  which  had  not  been  visible  i:i  the  countenance  of 
the  young  lady  in  the  pearl-colored  robe.  Graham  did  not 
hear  Louvier's  reply,  though  no  doubt  it  was  loud  enough  for 
him  to  hear.  He  sank  again  into  revery.  Other  guests  now 
came  into  the  room,  among  them  Frank  Morley,  styled  Colonel 
(eminent  military  titles  in  the  United  States  do  not  always 
denote  eminent  military  services),  a  wealthy  American,  and  his 
sprightly  and  beautiful  wife.  The  Colonel  was  a  clever  man, 
rather  stiff  in  his  deportment,  and  grave  in  speech,  but  by  no 
means  without  a  vein  of  dry  humor.  By  the  French  he  was 
esteemed  a  high-bred  specimen  of  the  kind  of  grand  seigneur 
which  democratic  republics  engender.  He  spoke  French  like 
a  Parisian,  had  an  imposing  presence,  and  spent  a  great  deal 
of  money  with  the  elegance  of  a  man  of  taste  and  the  generos- 
ity of  a  man  of  heart.  His  high  breeding  was  not  quite  so 
well  understood  by  the  English,  because  the  English  are  apt  to 
judge  breeding  by  little  conventional  rules  not  observed  by  the 
American  Colonel.  He  had  a  slight  nasal  twang,  and  intro- 
duced "sir"  with  redundant  ceremony  in  addressing  English- 
men, however  intimate  he  might  be  with  them,  and  had  the 
habit  (perhaps  with  a  sly  intention  to  startle  or  puzzle  them) 
of  adorninghis  style  of  conversation  with  quaint  Americanisms. 
.  Nevertheless,  the  genial  amiability  and  the  inherent  dignity 
of  his  character  made  him  acknowledged  as  a  thorough  gentle- 
man by  every  Englishman,  however  conventional  in  tastes, 
who  became  admitted  into  his  intimate  acquaintance. 

Mrs.  Morley,  ten  or  twelve  years  younger  than  her  husband, 
had  no  nasal  twang,  and  employed  no  Americanisms  in  her 
talk,  which  was  frank,  lively,  and  at  times  eloquent.  She  had 
a  great  ambition  to  be  esteemed  of  a  masculine  understand- 
ing :  Nature  unkindly  frustrated  that  ambition  in  rendering 
her  a  model  of  feminine  grace.  Graham  was  intimately  ac- 
quainted with  Colonel  Morley  ;  arfd  with  Mrs.  Morley  had 
contracted  one  of  those  cordial  friendships,  which,  perfectly 
free  alike  from  polite  flirtation  and  Platonic  attachment,  do 
sometimes  spring  up  between  persons  of  opposite  sexes  with- 
«out  the  slightest  danger  of  changing  their  honest  character  into 
morbid  sentimentality  or  unlawful  passion.  The  Morleys 
stopped  to  accost  Graham,  but  the  lady  had  scarcely  said  three 
words  to  him  before,  catching  sight  of  the  haunting  face,  she 


102  THE    PARISIANS. 

darted  towards  it.  Her  husband,  less  emotional,  bowed  at  the 
distance,  and  said  :  "  To  my  taste,  sir,  the  Signorina  Cicogna 
is  the  loveliest  girl  in  the  present  bee,*  and  full  of  mind,  sir." 

"  Singing  mind,"  said  Graham  sarcastically,  and  in  the  ill- 
natured  impulse  of  a  man  striving  to  check  his  inclination  to 
admire. 

"I. have  no't  heard  her  sing,"  replied  the  American  drily  ; 
"and  the  words  'singing  mind'  are  doubtless  accurately 
English,  since  you  employ  them  ;  but  at  Boston  the  collocation 
would  be  deemed  barbarous.  You  fly  off  the  handle.  The 
epithet,  sir,  is  not  in  concord  with  the  substantive." 

"  Boston  would  be  in  the  right,  my  dear  Colonel.  I  stand 
rebuked  ;  mind  has  little  to  do  with  singing." 

"I  take  leave  to  deny  that,  sir.  You  fire  into  the  wrong 
flock,  and  would  not  hazard  the  remark  if  you  had  conversed 
as  I  have  with  Signorina  Cicogna." 

Before  Graham  could  answer,  Signorina  Cicogna  stood  before 
him  leaning  lightly  on  Mrs.  Morley's  arm. 

"Frank,  you  must  take  us  into  the  refreshment-room,"  said 
Mrs.  Morley  to  her  husband  ;  and  then,  turning  to  Graham, 
added,  "Will  you  help  to  make  way  for  us  ?  " 

Graham  bowed,  and  offered  his  arm  to  the  fair  speaker. 

"No,"  said  she,  taking  her  husband's.  "Of  course  you 
know  the  Signorina,  or,  as  we  usually  call  her,  Mademoiselle 
Cicogna.  No  ?  Allow  me  to  present  you — Mr.  Graham  Vane — 
Mademoiselle  Cicogna.  Mademoiselle  speaks  English  like  a 
native."  , 

And  thus  abruptly  Graham  was  introduced  to  the  owner  of 
the  haunting  face.  He  had  lived  too  much  in  the  great  world 
all  his  life  to  retain  the  innate  shyness  of  an  Englishman,  but 
he  certainly  was  confused  and  embarrassed  when  his  eyes  met 
Isaura's,  and  he  felt  her  hand  on  his  arm.  Before  quitting  the 
room  she  paused  and  looked  back  ;  Graham's  look  followed 
her  own,  and  saw  behind  them  the  lady  with  the  scarlet  jacket 
escorted  by  some  portly  and  decorated  connoisseur.  Isaura's 
face  brightened  to  another  kind  of  brightness,  a  pleased  and 
tender  light.  ^ 

"Poor dear  madre"  she  murmured  to  herself  in  Italian. 

" Madre"  echoed  Graham,  also  in  Italian.  "I  have  been 
misinformed,  then  :  that  lady  is  your  mother." 

Isaura  laughed  a  pretty,  low,  silvery  laugh,  and  replied  in 
English,  "  She  is  not  my  mother,  but  I  call  her  madre,  for  I 
know  no  name  more  loving." 

*  Bee,  a  common  expression  in  "  the  West,"  for  a  meeting  or  gathering  of  people. 


THE    PARISIANS.  IO3 

Graham  was  touched,  and  said  gently:  "Your  own  mother 
was  evidently  very  dear  to  you." 

Isaura's  lip  quivered,  and  she  made  a  slight  movement  as  if 
she  would  have  withdrawn  her  hand  from  his  arm.  He  saw 
that  he  had  offended  or  wounded  her,  and  with  the  straightfor- 
ward frankness  natural  to  him  resumed  quickly: 

"  My  remark  was  impertinent  in  a  stranger  ;  forgive  it." 

"There  is  nothing  to  forgive,  monsieur." 

The  two  now  threaded  their  way  through  the  crowd,  both 
silent.  At  last  Isaura,  thinking  she  ought  to  speak  first  in 
order  to  show  that  Graham  had  not  offended  her,  said  : 

"  How  lovely  Mrs.  Morley  is  !  " 

"  Yes,  and  I  like  the  spirit  and  ease  of  her  American  manner  : 
have  you  known  her  long,  Mademoiselle  ?  " 

"  No;  we  met  her  for  the  first  ^time  some  weeks  ago  at  M. 
Savarin's." 

"  Was  she  very  eloquent  on  the  rights  of  women  ?" 

"  What,  you  have  heard  her  on  that  subject  ?" 

"  I  have  rarely  heard  her  on  any  other,  though  she  is  the  best 
and  perhaps  the  cleverest  friend  I  have  at  Paris  ;  but  that  may 
l>e  my  fault,  for  I  like  to  start  it.  Id| s  a  relief  to  the  languid 
small-talk  of  society  to  listen  to  any  one  thoroughly  in  earnest 
upon  turning  the  world  topsy-turvy." 

"  Do  you  suppose  poor  Mrs.  Morley  would  seek  to  do  that  if 
she  had  her  rights  ?"  asked  Isaura,  with  her  musical  laugh. 

"  Not  a  doubt  of  it  ;  but  perhaps  you  share  her  opinions." 

"  I  scarcely  know  what  her  opinions  are,  but — " 

"  Yes— but  ?— " 

"There  is  a — what  shall  I  call  it? — a  persuasion,  asentiment, 
out  of  which  the  opinions  probably  spring  that  I  do  share." 

"  Indeed  ?  A  persuasion,  a  sentiment,  for  instance,  that  a 
woman  should  have  votes  in  the  choice  of  legislators,  and,  I 
presume,  in  the  task  of  legislation  ?  " 

"  No,  that  is  not  what  I  mean.  Still,  that  is  an  opinion, 
right  or  wrong,  which  grows  out  of  the  sentiment  I  speak  of." 

"  Pray  explain  the  sentiment." 

"  It  is  always  so  difficult  to  define  a  sentiment,  but  does  it 
wot  strike  you  that  in  proportion  as  the  tendency  of  modern 
civilization  has  been  to  raise  women  more  and  more  to  an  in- 
tellectual equality  with  men — in  proportion  as  they  read  and 
study  and  think — an  uneasy  sentiment,  perhaps  querulous, 
perhaps  unreasonable,  grows  up  within  their  minds  that  the 
conventions  of  the  world  are  against  the  complete  development 
of  the  faculties  thus  aroused  and  the  ambition  thus  animated  ; 


1O4  THE    PARISIANS. 

that  they  cannot  but  rebel,  though  it  may  be  silently,  against 
the  notions  of  the  former  age,  when  women  were  not  thus 
educated  ;  notions  that  the  aim  of  the  sex  should  be  to  steal 
through  life  unremarked  ;  that  it  is  a  reproach  to  be  talked  of ; 
that  women  are  plants  to  be  kept  in  a  hothouse  and  forbidden 
the  frank  liberty  of  growth  in  the  natural  air  and  sunshine  of 
heaven.  This,  at  least,  is  a  sentiment  which  has  sprung  up 
within  myself,  and  I  imagine  that  it  is  the  sentiment  which  has 
given  birth  to  many  of  the  opinions  or  doctrines  that  seem 
absurd,  and  very  likely  are  so,  to  the  general  public.  I  don't 
pretend  even  to  have  considered  those  doctrines.  I  don't  pre- 
tend to  say  what  may  be  the  remedies  for  the  restlessness  and 
uneasiness  I  feel.  I  doubt  if  on  this  earth  there  be  any 
remedies  ;  all  I  know  is,  that  I  feel  restless  and  uneasy." 

Graham  gazed  on  her  countenance  as  .she  spoke  with  an 
astonishment  not  unmingled  with  tenderness  and  compassion  ; 
astonishment  at  the  contrast  between  a  vein  of  reflection  so 
hardy,  expressed  in  a  style  of  language  that  seemed  to  him  so 
masculine,  and  the  soft  velvet,  dreamy  eyes,  the  gentle  tones, 
and  delicate  purity  of  hues  rendered  younger  still  by  the  blush 
that  deepened  their  bloom. 

At  this  moment  they  had  entered  the  refreshment-room  ; 
but  a  dense  group  being  round  the  table,  and  both  perhaps 
forgetting  the  object  for  which  Mrs.  Morley  had  introduced 
them  to  each  other,  they  had  mechanically  seated  themselves 
on  an  ottoman  in  a  recess  while  Isaura  was  yet  speaking.  It 
must  seem  as  strange  to  the  reader  as  it  did  to  Graham  that 
such  a  speech  should  have  been  spoken  by  so  young  a  girl  to 
an  acquaintance  so  new.  But  in  truth  Isaura  was  very  little 
conscious  of  Graham's  presence.  She  had  got  on  a  subject 
that  perplexed  and  tormented  her  solitary  thoughts  ;  she  was 
but  thinking "fcloud. 

"  I  believe,"  said  Graham,  after  a  pause,  "  that  I  compre- 
hend your  sentiment  much  better  than  I  do  Mrs.  Morley's 
opinions ;  but  permit  me  one  observation.  You  say,  truly, 
that  the  course  of  modern  civilization  has  more  or  less  affected 
the  relative  position  of  woman  cultivated  beyond  that  level  on 
which  she  was  formerly  contented  to  stand — the  nearer  per- 
haps to  the  heart  of  man  because  not  lifting  her  head  to  his 
height  ;  and  hence  a  sense  of  restlessness,  uneasiness.  But  do 
you  suppose  that,  in  this  whirl  and  dance  of  the  atoms  which 
compose  the  rolling  ball  of  the  civilized  world,  it  is  only 
women  that  are  made  restless  and  uneasy  ?  Do  you  not  see 
amid  the  masses  congregated  in  the  wealthiest  cities  of  the 


THE    PARISIANS.  105 

world,  writhings  and  struggles  against  the  received  order  of 
things?  In  this  sentiment  of  discontent  there  is  a  certain 
truthfulness,  because  it  is  an  element  of  human  nature  ;  and 
how  best  to  deal  with  it  is  a  problem  yet  unsolved.  But  in  the 
opinions  and  doctrines  to  which,  among  the  masses,  the  senti- 
ment gives  birth,  the  wisdom  of  the  wisest  detects  only  the 
certainty  of  a  common  ruin,  offering  for  reconstruction  the 
same  building  materials  as  the  former  edifice — materials  not 
likely  to  be  improved  because  they  may  be  defaced.  Ascend 
from  the  working  classes  to  all  others  in  which  civilized  cul- 
ture prevails,  and  you  will  find  that  same  restless  feeling ;  the 
fluttering  of  untried  wings  against  the  bars  between  wider 
space  and  their  longings.  Could  you  poll  all  the  educated 
ambitious  young  men  in  England,  perhaps  in  Europe,  at  least 
half  of  them,  divided  between  a  reverence  for  the  past  and  a 
curiosity  as  to  the  future,  would  sigh  :  "  I  am  born  a  century 
too  late  or  a  century  too  soon  !  " 

Isaura  listened  to  this  answer  with  a  profound  and  absorbing 
interest.  It  was  the  first  time  that  a  clever  young  man  talked 
thus  sympathetically  to  her,  a  clever  young  girl. 

Then  rising,  he  said  :  "  I  see  your  madre  and  our  American 
friends  are  darting  angry  looks  at  me.  They  have  made  room 
for  us  at  the  table,  and  are  wondering  why  I  should  keep  you 
thus  from  the^good  things  of  this  little  life.  One  word  more 
ere  we  join  them  :  Consult  your  own  mind,  and  consider 
whether  your  uneasiness  and  unrest  are  caused  solely  by  con- 
ventional shackles  on  your  sex.  Are  they  not  equally  common 
to  the  youth  of  ours  ? — common  to  all  who  seek  in  art,  in  let- 
ters, nay,  in  the  stormier  field  of  active  life,  to  clasp  as  a  reality 
some  image  yet  seen  but  as  a  dream  ? " 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

No  further  conversation  in  the  way  of  sustained  dialogue 
took  place  that  evening  between  Graham  and  Isaura. 

The  Americans  and  theSavarins  clustered  round  Isaura  when 
they  quitted  the  refreshment-room.  The  party  was  breaking 
up.  Vane  would  have  offered  his  arm  again  to  Isaura,  but  M. 
Savarin  had  forestalled  him.  The  American  was  despatched 
by  his  wife  to  see  for  the  carriage  ;  and  Mrs.  Morley  said,  \vith 
her  wonted  sprightly  tone  of  command  : 

"  Now,  Mr.  Vane,  you  have  no  option  but  to  take  care  of  me 
tc  the  shawl-room." 


106  THE    PARISIANS. 

Madame  Savarin  and  Signora  Venosta  had  each  found  their 
cavaliers,  the  Italian  still  retaining  held  of  the  portly  connois- 
seur, and  the  Frenchwoman  accepting  the  safeguard  of  the 
Vicomte  de  Breze.  As  they  descended  the  stairs,  Mrs.  Mor- 
ley  asked  Graham  what  he  thought  of  the  young  lady  to  whom 
she  had  presented  him. 

"  I  think  she  is  charming,"  answered  Graham. 

"  Of  course  ;  that  is  the  stereotyped  answer  to  all  such  ques- 
tions, especially  by  you  Englishmen.  In  public  or  in  private, 
England  is  the  mouthpiece  of  platitudes." 

"  It  is  natural  for  an  American  to  think  so.  Every  child  that 
has  just  learned  to  speak  uses  bolder  expressions  that  its  grand- 
mamma ;  but  I  am  rather  at  a  loss  to  know  by  what  novelty  of 
phrase  an  American  would  have  answered  your  question." 

"An  American  would  have  discovered  that  Isaura  Cicogna 
had  a  soul,  and  his  answer  would  have  confessed  it." 

"  It  strikes  me  that  he  would  then  have  uttered  a  platitude 
more  stolid  than  mine.  Every  Christian  knows  that  the  dullest 
human  being  has  a  soul.  But,  to  speak  frankly,  I  grant  that 
my  answer  did  not  do  justice  to  the  Signorina,  nor  to  the  im- 
pression she  makes  on  me  ;  and  putting  aside  the  charm  of 
the  face,  there  is  a  charm  in  a  mind  that  seems  to  have  gathered 
stores  of  reflection  which  I  should  scarcely  have  expected  to 
find  in  a  young  lady  brought  up  to  be  a  professional  singer." 

"  You  add  prejudice  to  platitude,  and  are  horribly  prosaic 
to-night  ;  but  here  we  are  in  the  shawl-room.  I  must  take  an- 
other opportunity  of  attacking  you.  Pray  dine  with  us  to- 
morrow ;  you  will  meet  our  rairjister  and  a  few  other  pleasant 
friends." 

"  I  suppose  I  must  not  say,  '  I  shall  be  charmed," "  answered 
Vane,  "  but  I  shall  be." 

"  Bon  Dicu !  That  horrid  fat  man  has  deserted  Signora 
Venosta — looking  for  his  own  cloak,  I  dare  say.  Selfish  mon- 
ster !  Go  and  hand  her  to  her  carriage  —  quick,  it  is  an- 
nounced !  " 

Graham,  thus  ordered,  hastened  to  offer  his  arm  to  the  she- 
mountebank.  Somehow  she  had  acquired  dignity  in  his  eyes, 
and  he  did  not  feel  the  least  ashamed  of  being  in  contact  with 
the  scarlet  jacket. 

The  Signora  grappled  to  him  with  a  confiding  familiarity. 

"  I  am  afraid,"  she  said  in  Italian,  as  they  passed  along  the 
spacious  hall  to  the  porte  cochtre  ;  "  I  am  afraid  that  I  did  not 
make  a  good  effect  to-night ;  I  was  nervous  ;  did  not  you  per- 
ceive it  ? " 


THE    PARISIANS.  107 

"  No,  indeed  ;  you  enchanted  us  all,"  replied  the  dissimu- 
lator. 

"  How  amiable  you  are  to  say  so  !  You  must  think  that  I 
sought  for  a  compliment.  So  I  did  ;  you  gave  me  more  than 
I  deserve.  Wine  is  the  milk  of  old  men,  and  praise  of  old 
women.  But  an  old  man  may  be  killed  by  too  much  wine, 
and  an  old  woman  lives  all  the  longer  for  too  much  praise — 
bii'ina  no  tie" 

Here  she  sprang,  lithesomely  enough,  into  the  carriage,  and 
Isaura  followed,  escorted  by  M.  Savarin.  As  the  two  men 
returned  towards  the  shawl-room,  the  Frenchman  said  :  "  Ma- 
dame Savarin  and  I  complain  that  you  have  not  let  us  see 
so  much  of  you  as  we  ought.  No  doubt  you  are  greatly  sought 
after  ;  but  are  you  free  to  take  your  soup  with  us  the  day 
after  to  morrow  ?  You  will  meet  the  Count  von  Rudesheim 
and  a  few  others  more  lively,  if  less  wise." 

"  The  day  after  to-morrow  I  will  mark  with  a  white  stone. 
To  dine  with  M.  Savarin  is  an  event  to  a  man  who  covets  dis- 
tinction." 

"  Such  compliments  reconcile  an  author  to  his  trade.  You 
deserve  the  best  return  I  can  make  you.  You  will  meet  la 
belle  Isaure.  I  have  just  engaged  her  and  her  chaperon.  She 
is  a  girl  of  true  genius,  and  genius  is  like  those  objects  of  vertu 
which  belong  to  a  former  age,  and  become  every  day  more 
scarce  and  more  precious." 

Here  they  encountered  Colonel  Morley  and  his  wife  hurry- 
ing to  their  carriage.  The  American  stopped  Vane,  and 
whispered  :  "  I  am  glad,  sir,  to  hear  from  my  wife  that  you 
dine  with  us  to-morrow.  Sir,  you  will  meet  Mademoiselle 
Cicogna,  and  I  am  not  without  a  kinkle  *  that  you  will  be 
enthused." 

"  This  seems  like  a  fatality,"  soliloquized  Vane  as  he  walked 
through  the  deserted  streets  towards  his  lodging.  "  I  strove  to 
banish  that  haunting  face  from  my  mind.  I  had  half  forgotten 
it,  and  now — "  Here  his  murmur  sank  into  silence.  He  was 
deliberating  in  very  conflicted  thought  whether  or  not  he 
should  write  to  refuse  the  two  invitations  he  had  accepted. 

"  Pooh  !  "  he  said  at  last,  as  he  reached  the  door  of  his 
lodging,  "  is  my  reason  so  weak  that  it  should  be  influenced  by 
a  mere  superstition  ?  Surely  I  know  myself  too  well,  and  have 
tried  myself  too  long,  to  fear  that  I  should 'be  untrue  to  the 
duty  and  ends  of  my  life,  even  if  I  found  my  heart  in  danger 
of  suffering."' 

*  A  notion. 


IO8  THE    PARISIANS. 

Certainly  the  Fates  do  seem  to  mock  our  resolves  to  keep 
our  feet  from  their  ambush,  and  our  hearts  from  their  snare. 

How  our  lives  may  be  colored  by  that  which  seems  to  us 
the  most  trivial  accident,  the  merest  chance  !  Suppose  that 
Alain  de  Rochebriant  had  been  invited  to  the  reunion  at  M. 
Louvier's,  and  Graham  Vane  had  accepted  some  other  invita- 
tion and  passed  his  evening  elsewhere,  Alain  would  probably 
have  been  presented  to  Isaura — what  then''  might  have  hap- 
pened ?  The  impression  Isaura  had  already  made  upon  the 
young  Frenchman  was  not  so  deep  as  that  made  upon  Graham  ; 
but  then,  Alain's  resolution  to  efface  it  was  but  commenced 
that  day,  and  by  no  means  yet  confirmed.  And  if  he  had  been 
the  first  clever  young  man  to  talk  earnestly  to  that  clever 
young  girl,  who  can  guess  what  impression  he  might  have 
made  upon  her  ?  His  conversation  might  have  had  less  phil- 
osophy and  strong  sense  than  Graham's  but  more  of  poetic 
sentiment  and  fascinating  romance. 

However,  the  history  of  events  that  do  not  come  to  pass  is 
not  in  the  chronicle  of  the  Fates. 


BOOK  III. 


CHAPTER  I. 

THE  next  day  the  fjueste  at  the  Morleys'  had  assembled 
when  Vane  entered.  His  apology  for  unpunctuality  was  cut 
short  by  the  lively  hostess  :  "  Your  pardon  is  granted  without 
the  humiliation  of  asking  for  it ;  we  know  that  the  character- 
istic of  the  English  is  always  to  be  a  little  behindhand." 

She  then  proceeded  to  introduce  him  to  the  American 
Minister,  to  a  distinguished  American  poet,  with  a  countenance 
striking  for  mingled  sweetness  and  power,  and  one  or  two 
other  of  her  countrymen  sojourning  at  Paris  ;  and  this  cere- 
mony over,  dinner  was  announced,  and  she  bade  Graham  offer 
his  arm  to  Mademoiselle  Cicogna. 

"  Have  you  ever  visited  the  United  States,  Mademoiselle  ?  * 
asked  Vane,  as  they  seated  themselves  at  the  table. 

"  No." 

"  It  is  a  voyage  you  are  sure  to  make  soon." 

"  Why  so  ?  " 


THE    PARISIANS.  109 

"  Because  report  says  you  will  create  a  great  sensation  at 
the  very  commencement  of  your  career  ;  and  the  New  World 
is  ever  eager  to  welcome  each  celebrity  that  is  achieved  in  the 
Old  ;  more  especially  that  which  belongs  to  your  enchanting 
art." 

"  True,  sir,"  said  an  American  senator,  solemnly  striking 
into  the  conversation  ;  "  we  are  an  appreciative  people;  and  if 
that  lady  be  as  fine  a  singer  as  I  am  told,  she  might  command 
any  amount  of  dollars." 

Isaura  colored,  and  turning  to  Graham,  asked  him  in  a  low 
voice  if  he  were  fond  of  music. 

"  I  ought  of  course  to  say  'yes,'  "  answered  Graham  in  the 
same  tone;  "but  I  doubt  if  that  'yes'  would  be  an  honest 
one.  In  some  moods,  music — if  a  kind  of  music  I  like — affects 
me  very  deeply  ;  in  other  moods,  not  at  all.  And  I  cannot 
bear  much  at  a  time.  A  concert  wearies  me  shamefully  ;  even 
an  opera  always  seems  to  me  a  great  deal  too  long.  But  I 
ought  to  add  that  1  am  no  judge  of  music  ;  that  music  was 
never  admitted  into  my  education  ;  and,  between  ourselves, 
I  doubt  if  there  be  one  Englishman  in  five  hundred  who  would 
care  for  opera  or  concert  if  it  were  not  the  fashion  to  say  he 
did.  Does  my  frankness  revolt  you  ?  " 

"On  the  contrary,  I  sometimes  doubt,  especially  of  late,  if  I 
am  fond  of  music  myself." 

"  Signorina — pardon  me — it  is  impossible  that  you  should 
not  be.  Genius  can  never  be  untrue~to  itself,  and  must  love 
that  in  which  it  excels;  that  ly  \\  hich  it  communicates  joy, 
and,"  he  added,  with  a  half-suppressed  sigh,  "attains  to  glory." 

"  Genius  is  a  divine  word,  and  not  to  be  applied  to  a  singer," 
said  Isaura,  with  a  humility  in  which  there  was  an  earnest  sad- 
ness. 

Graham  was  touched  and  startled  ;  but  before  he  could 
answer,  the  American  Minister  appealed  to  him  across  the 
table,  asking  if  he  had  quoted  accurately  a  |  assnge  in  a  speech 
by  Graham's  distinguished  father,  in  regard  to  tbe  share  which 
England  ought  to  take  in  the  political  affaiis  of  Europe. 

The  conversation  now  became  general  ;  very  political  and 
very  serious.  Graham  was  drawn  into  it,  and  grew  animated 
and  eloquent. 

Isaura  listened  to  him  with  admiration.  She  was  struck  by 
what  seemed  to  her  a  nobleness  of  sentiment  which  elevated 
his  theme  above  the  level  of  commonplace  polemics.  She  was 
pleased  to  notice,  in  the  attentive  silence  of  his  intelligent  list- 
eners, that  they  shared  the  effect  produced  on  herself.  In 


110  THE    PARISIANS. 

fact,  Graham  Vane  was  a  born  orator,  and  his  studies  had 
been  those  of  a  political  thinker.  In  common  talk  he  was  but 
the  accomplished  man  of  the  world,  easy  and  frank  and 
genial,  with  a  touch  of  good-natured  sarcasm  ;  but  when  the 
subject  started  drew  him  upward  to  those  heights  in  which 
politics  become  the  science  of  humanity,  he  seemed  a  changed 
being.  His  cheek  glowed,  his  eye  brightened,  his  voice  mel- 
lowed into  richer  tones,  his  language  became  unconsciously 
adorned.  In  such  moments  there  might  scarcely  be  an  audi- 
ence, .even  differing  from  him  in  opinion,  which  would  not 
have  acknowledged  his  spell. 

When  the  party  adjourned  to  the  salon,  Isaura  said  softly  to 
Graham  :  "I  understand  why  you  did  not  cultivate  music  ; 
and  I  think,  too,  that  I  can  now  understand  what  effects  the 
human  voice  can  produce  on  human  minds,  without  recurring 
to  the  art  of  song." 

"  Ah,"  said  Graham  with  a  pleased  smile,  "do  not  make  me 
ashamed  of  my  former  rudeness  by  the  revenge  of  compliment, 
and,  above  all,  do  not  disparage  your  own  art  by  supposing 
that  any  prose  effect  of  voice  in  its  utterance  of  mind  can  in- 
terpret t-hat  which  music  alone  can  express,  even  to  listeners  so 
uncultured  as  myself.  Am  I  not  told  truly  by  musical  com- 
posers, when  I  ask  them  to  explain  in  words  what  they  say  in 
their  music,  that  such  explanation  is  impossible,  that  music 
has  a  language  of  its  own,  untranslatable  by  words?" 

"Yes,"  said  Isaura,  with  thoughtful  brow  but  brightening 
eyes,  "  you  are  told  truly.  It  was  only  the  other  day  that  I 
was  pondering  over  that  truth." 

"  But  what  recesses  of  mind,  of  heart,  of  soul,  this  untrans- 
latable language  penetrates  and  brightens  up  !  How  incom- 
plete the  grand  nature  of  man — though  man  the  grandest — • 
would  be,  if  you  struck  out  of  his  reason  the  comprehension  o( 
poetry,  music,  and  religion  !  In  each  are  reached  and  are 
sounded  deeps  in  his  reason  otherwise  concealed  from  himself. 
History,  knowledge,  science,  stop  at  the  point  in  which  mys- 
tery begins.  There  they  meet  with  the  world  of  shadow. 
Not  an  inch  of  that  world  can  they  penetrate  without  the  aid 
of  poetry  and  religion,  two  necessities  of  intellectual  man 
much  more  nearly  allied  than  the  votaries  of  the  practical  and 
the  positive  suppose.  To  the  aid  and  elevation  of  both  those 
necessities  comes  in  music,  and  there  has  never  existed  a  re- 
ligion in  the  world  which  has  not  demanded  music  as  its  ally. 
If,  as  I  said. frankly,  it  is  only  in  certain  moods  of  my  mind 
that  I  enjoy  music,  it  is  only  because  in  certain  moods  of  my 


THE    PARISIANS.  Ill 

mind  I  am  capable  of  quitting  the' guidance  of  prosaic  reason 
for  the  world  of  shadow  ;  that  I  am  so  susceptible  as  at  every 
hour,  were  my  nature  perfect,  I  should  be  to  the  mysterious 
influences  of  poetry  and  religion.  Do  you  understand  what  I 
wish  to  express  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  do,  and  clearly." 

"  Then,  Signorina,  you  are  forbidden  to  undervalue  the  gift 
of  song.  You  must  feel  its  power  over  the  heart,  when  you 
enter  the  opera-house  ;  over  the  soul,  when  you  kneel  in  a 
cathedral." 

"  Oh,"  cried  Isaura  with  enthusiasm,  a  rich  glow  mantling 
over  her  lovely  face,  "  how  I  thank,  you!  Is  it  you  who  say 
you  do  not  love  music?  How  much  better  you  understand  it 
than  I  did  till  this  moment !  " 

Here  Mrs.  Morley,  joined  by  the  American  poet,  came  to 
the  corner  in  which  the  Englishman  arid  the  singer  had  niched 
themselves.  The  poet  began  to  talk,  the  other  guests  gathered 
round,  and  every  one  listened  reverentially  till  the  party  broke 
up.  Colonel  Morley  handed  Isaura  to  her  carfiage,  the  she- 
mountebank  again  fell  to  the  lot  of  Graham. 

"  Signer,"  said  -she,  as  he  respectfully  placed  her  shawl  round 
her  scarlet-and-gilt  jacket,  "are  we  so  far  from  Paris  that  you 
cannot  spare  the  time  to  call  ?  My  child  does  not  sing  in 
public,  but  at  home  you  can  hear  her.  It  is  not  every  woman's 
voice  that  is  sweetest  at  home." 

Graham  bowed,  and  said  he  would  call  on  the  morrow. 

Isaura  mused  in  silent  delight  over  the  words  which  had  so 
extolled  the  art  of  the  singer.  Alas,  poor  child  !  She  could 
not  guess  that  in  those  words,  reconciling  her  to  the  profession 
of  the-stage,  the  speaker  was  pleading  against  his  own  heart. 

There  was  in  Graham's  nature,  as  I  think  it  commonly  is  in 
that  of  most  true  orators,  a  wonderful  degree  of  intellectual  con- 
science which  impelled  him  to  acknowledge  the  benignant  in- 
fluences of  song,  and  to  set  before  the  young  singer  the  noblest 
incentives  to  the  profession  to  which  he  deemed  her  assuredly 
destined.  But  in  so  doing  he  must  have  felt  that  he  was  widen- 
ing the  gulf  between  her  life  and  his  own  ;  perhaps  he  wished 
to  widen  it  in  proportion  as  he  dreaded  to  listen  to  any  voice 
in  his  heart  which  asked  if  the  gulf  might  not  be  overleapt. 


112  THE    PARISIANS. 


CHAPTER   II. 

ON  the  morrow  Graham  called  at  the  villa  at  A .  The 

two  ladies  received  him  in  Isaura's  chosen  sitting-room. 

Somehow  or  other,  conversation  at  first  languished.  Graham 
was  reserved  and  distant,  Isaura  shy  and  embarrassed. 

The  Venosta  had  the /rat's  of  making  talk  to  herself.  Prob- 
ably at  another  time  Graham  would  have  been  amused  and 
interested  in  the  observation  of  a  character  new  to  him,  and 
thoroughly  southern  ;  lovable,  not  more  from  its  nai've  sim- 
plicity of  kindliness  than  from  various  little  foibles  and  vani- 
ties, all  of  which  were  harmless,  and  some  of  them  endearing 
as  those  of  a  child  whom  it  is  easy  to  make  happy,  and  whom 
it  seems  so  cruel  to  pain  :  and  with  all  the  Venosta's  deviations 
from  the  polished  and  tranquil  good  taste  of  the  beau  monde, 
she  had  that  indescribable  grace  which  rarely  deserts  a  Floren- 
tine, so  that  you  might  call  her  odd  but  not  vulgar  ;  while, 
though  uneducated,  except  in  the  way  of  her  old  profession, 
and  never  having  troubled  herself  to  read  anything  but  a 
libretto,  and  the  pious  books  recommended  to  her  by  her  con- 
fessor, the  artless  babble  of  her  talk  every  now  and  then  flashed 
out  with  a  quaint  humor,  lighting  up  terse  fragments  of  the  old 
Italian  wisdom  which  had  mysteriously  embedded  themselves 
in  the  groundwork  of  her  mind. 

But  Graham  was  not  at  this  time  disposed  to  judge  the  poor 
Venosta  kindly  or  fairly.  Isaura  had  taken  high  rank  in  his 
thoughts.  He  felt  an  impatient  resentment  mingled  with 
anxiety  and  compassionate  tenderness  at  a  companionship  which 
seemed  to  him  derogatory  to  the  position  he  would  have  as- 
signed to  a  creature  so  gifted,  and  unsafe  as  a  guide  amidst 
the  perils  and  trials  to  which  the  youth,  the  beauty,  and  the 
destined  profession  of  Isaura  were  exposed.  Like  most  En- 
glishmen— especially  Englishmen  wise  in  the  knowledge  of 
life — he  held  in  fastidious  regard  the  proprieties  and  conven- 
tions by  which  the  dignity  of  woman  is  fenced  round  ;  and  of 
those  proprieties  and  conventions  the  Venosta  naturally  ap- 
peare.d  to  him  a  very  unsatisfactory  guardian  and  represen- 
tative. 

Happily  unconscious  of  these  hostile  prepossessions,  the 
elder  Signora  chatted  on  very  gayly  to  the  visitor.  She  was  in 
excellent  spirits  ;  people  had  been  very  civil  to  her  both  at 
Colonel  Morley's  and  M.  Louvier's.  The  American  Minister 
had  praised  the  scarlet  jacket.  She  was  convinced  she  had 


THE    PARISIANS.  113 

made  a  sensation  two  nights  running.  When  the  amour proprc 
is  pleased,  the  tongue  is  freed. 

The  Venosta  ran  on  in  praise  of  Paris  and  the  Parisians,  of 
Louvier  and  his  soiree  and  the  pistachio  ice  ;  of  the  Americans 
and  a  certain  creme  de  maraschino  which  she  hoped  the  Signor 
Inglese  had  not  failed  to  taste — the  creme  de  maraschino  led  her 
thoughts  back  to  Italy.  Then  she  grew  mournful  :  how  she 
missed  the  native  beau  del !  Paris  was  pleasant,  but  how  ab- 
surd to  call  it  "  Le  Paradis  des  Femmes" — as  if  les  Fernmes 
could  find  Paradise  in  a  biouillard ! 

"  But,"  she  exclaimed,  with  vivacity  of  voice  and  gesticula- 
tion, "  the  Signor  does  not  come  to  hear  the  parrot  talk.  He 
is  engaged  to  come  that  he  may  hear  the  nightingale  sing.  A 
drop  of  honey  attracts  the  fly  more  than  a  bottle  of  vinegar." 

Graham  could  not  help  smiling  at  this  adage.  "  I  submit," 
said  he,  "to  your  comparison,  as  regards  myself  ;  but  certainly 
anything  less  like  a  bottle  of  vinegar  than  your  amiable  con- 
versation I  cannot  well  conceive.  However,  the  metaphor 
apart,  I  scarcely  know  how  I  dare  ask  Mademoiselle  to  sing 
after  the  confession  I  made  to  her  last  night." 

"  What  confession  ?  "  asked  the  Venosta. 

"  That  I  know  nothing  of  music,  and  doubt  if  lean  honestly 
say  that  I  am  fond  of  it." 

"  Not  fond  of  music  !  Impossible  !  You  slander  yourself. 
He  who  loves  not  music  would  have  a  dull  time  of  it  in  heaven. 
But  you  are  English,  and  perhaps  have  only  heard  the  music 
of  -your  own  country.  Bad,  very  bad — a  heretic's  music  ! 
Now  listen." 

Seating  herself  at  the  piano,  she  began  an  air  from  the 
"  Lucia^."  crying  out  to  Isaura  to  come  and  sing  to  her  accom- 
paniment. 

"  Do  you  really  wish"  it  ?  "  asked  Isaura  of  Graham,  fixing  on 
him  questioning,  timid  eyes. 

"  I  cannot  say  how  much  I  wish  to  hear  you." 

Isaura  moved  to  the  instrument,  and  Graham  stood  behind 
her.  Perhaps  he  felt  that  he  should  judge  more  impartially  of 
her  voice  if  not  subjected  to  the  charm  of  her  face. 

But  the  first  note  of  the  voi.ce  held  him  spellbound  :  in  itself, 
the  organ  was  of  the  rarest  order,  mellow  and  rich,  but  so  soft 
that  its  power  was  lost  in  its  sweetness,  and  so  exquisitely  fresh 
in  every  note. 

But  the  singer's  charm  was  less  in  voice  than  in  feeling ;  she 
conveyed  to  the  listener  so  much  more  than  was  said  by  the 
words,  or  even  implied  by  the  music.  Her  song  in  this  caught 


114  ™E   PARISIANS. 

the  art  of  the  painter  who  impresses  the  mind  with  the  con- 
sciousness of  a  something  which  the  eye  cannot  detect  on  the 
canvas. 

She  seemed  to  breathe  out  from  the  depths  of  her  heart  the 
intense  pathos  of  the  original  romance,  so  far  exceeding  that 
of  the  opera  ;  the  human  tenderness,  the  mystic  terror  of  a 
tragic  love-tale  more  solemn  in  its  sweetness  than  that  of 
Verona. 

When  her  voice  died  away  no  applause  came,  not  even  a 
murmur.  Isaura  bashfully  turned  round  to  steal  a  glance  at 
her  silent  listener,  and  beheld  moistened  eyes  and  quivering 
lips.  At  that  moment  she  was  reconciled  to  her  art.  Graham 
rose  abruptly  and  walked  to  the  window. 

"Do  you  doubt  now  if  you  are  fond  of  music?"  cried  the 
Venosta. 

"This  is  more  than  music,"  answered  Graham,  still  with 
averted  face.  Then,  after  a  short  pause,  he  approached  Isaura, 
and  said,  with  a  melancholy  half-smile : 

"I  do  not  think,  Mademoiselle,  that  I  could  dare  to  hear 
you  often  ;  it  would  take  me  too  far  from  the  hard  real  world  ; 
and  he  who  would  not  be  left  behindhand  on  the  road  that  he 
must  journey  cannot  indulge  frequent  excursions  into  fairy- 
land." 

"  Yet,"  said  Isaura,  in  a  tone  yet  sadder,  "  I  was  told  in  my 
childhood,  by  one  whose  genius  gives  authority  to  her  words, 
that  beside  the  real  world  lies  the  ideal.  ,The  real  world  then 
seemed  rough  to  me.  '  Escape,'  said  my  counsellor,  'is  grant- 
ed from  that  stony  thoroughfare  into  the  fields  beyond  its 
formal  hedgerows.  The  ideal  world  has  its  sorrows,  but  it 
never  admits  despair.'  That  counsel,  then,  methought,  de- 
cided my  choice  of  life.  I  know  not  now  if  it  has  done  so." 

"Fate,"  answered  Graham  slowly  and  thoughtfully — "Fate, 
which  is  not  the  ruler  but  the  servant  of  Providence,  decides  our 
choice  of  life,  and  rarely  from  outward  circumstances.  Usual- 
ly the  motive  power  is  within.  We  apply  the  word  genius  to 
the  minds  of  a  gifted  few  ;  but  in  all  of  us  there  is  a  genius 
that  is  inborn,  a  pervading  something  which  distinguishes  our 
very  identity,  and  dictates  to  the  conscience  that  which  we  are 
best  fitted  to1  do  and  to  be.  In  so  dictating  it  compels  our 
choice  of  life  ;  or  if  we  resist  the  dictate,  we  find  at  the  close 
that  we  have  gone  astray.  My  choice  of  life  thus  compelled 
is  on  the  stony  thoroughfares,  yours  is  the  green  fields." 

As  he  thus  said,  his  face  became  clouded  and  mournful. 

The  Venosta,  quickly  tired  of  a  conversation  in  which  she 


THE   PARISIANS.  Jig 

had  no  part,  and  having  various  little  household  matters  to  at- 
tend to,  had  during  this  dialogue  slipped  unobserved  from  the 
room  ;  yet  neither  Isaura  nor  Graham  felt  the  sudden  con- 
sciousness that  they  were  alone  which  belongs  to  lovers. 

"  Why,"  asked  Isaura,  with  that  magic  smile  reflected  in 
countless  dimples  which,  even  when  her  words  were  those  of 
man's  reasoning,  made  them  seem  gentle  with  a  woman's  senti- 
ment ;  "Why  must  your  road  through  the  world  be  so  exclu- 
sively the  stony  one?  It  is  not  from  necessity,  it  cannot  be 
from  taste.  And  whatever  definition  you  give  to  genius,  surely 
it  is  not  your  own  inborn  genius  that  dictates  to  you  a  constant 
exclusive  adherence  to  the  commonplace  of  life." 

"  Ah,  Mademoiselle,  do  not  misrepresent  me  !  I  did  not 
say  that  I  could  not  sometimes  quit  the  real  world  for  fairy- 
land ;  I  said  that  I  could  not  do  so  often.  My  vocation  is  not 
that  of  a  poet  or  artist." 

"  It  is  that  of  an  orator,  I  know,"  said  Isaura,  kindling  ;  "so 
they  tell  me,  and  I  believe  them.  But  is  not  the  orator  some- 
what akin  to  the  poet  ?  Is  not  oratory  an  art  ?  " 

"  Let  us  dismiss  the  word  orator  :  as  applied  to  English  pub- 
lic life,  it  is  a  very  deceptive  expression.  The  Englishman 
who  wishes  to  influence  his  countrymen  by  force  of  .words 
spoken  must  mix  with  them  in  their  beaten  thoroughfares ; 
must  make  himself  master  of  their  practical  views  and  inter- 
ests ;  must  be  conversant  with  their  prosaic  occupations  and 
business  ;  must  understand  how  to  adjust  their  loftiest  aspi- 
rations to  their  material  welfare  ;  must  avoid,  as  the  fault  most 
dangerous  to  himself  and  to  others,  that  kind  of  eloquence 
which  is  called  oratory  in  France,  and  which  has  helped  to 
make  the  French  the  worst  politicians  in  Europe.  Alas,  Mad- 
emoiselle, I  fear  that  an  English  statesman  would  appear  to 
you  a  very  dull  orator." 

"  I  see  that  I  spoke  foolishly ;  yes,  you  show  me  that  the 
world  of  the  statesman  lies  apart  from  that  of  the  artist.  Yet — " 

"Yet  what?" 

"  May  not  the  ambition  of  both  be  the  same  ? " 

"  How  so  ? " 

"To  refine  the  rude,  to  exalt  the  mean;  to  identify  their 
own  fame  with  some  new  beauty,  some  new  glory,  added  to 
th^treasure-house  of  all." 

Graham  bowed  his  head  reverently,  and  then  raised  it  with 
the  flush  of  enthusiasm  on  his  cheek  and  brow. 

"Oh,  Mademoiselle,"  he  exclaimed,  "what  a  sure  guide 
and  what  a  noble  inspirer  to  a  true  Englishman's  ambition 


Il6  THE    PARISIANS. 

nature  has  fitted  you  to  be  were  it  not — "  He  paused 
abruptly. 

This  outburst  took  Isaura  utterly  by  surprise.  She  had  been 
accustomed  to  the  language  of  compliment  till  it  had  begun  to 
pall,  but  a  compliment  of  this  kind  was  the  first  that  had  ever 
reached  her  ear.  She  had  no  words  in  answer  to  it  ;  involun- 
tarily she  placed  her  hand  on  her  heart  as  if  to  still  its  beatings. 
But  the  unfinished  exclamation,  "  Were  it  not,"  troubled  her 
more  than  the  preceding  words  had  flattered  ;  and  mechani- 
cally she  murmured,  "  Were  it  not — what  ?  " 

"Oh,"  answered  Graham,  affecting  a  tone  of  gayety,  "I 
felt  too  ashamed  of  my  selfishness  as  man  to  finish  my 
sentence." 

"  Do  so,  or  I  shall  fancy  you  refrained  lest  you  might  wound 
me  as  a  woman." 

"  Not  so — on  the  contrary ;  had  I  gone  on,  it  would  have 
been  to  say  that  a  woman  of  your  genius,  and  more  especially 
of  such  mastery  in  the  most  popular  and  fascinating  of  all  arts, 
could  not  be  contented  if  she  inspired  nobler  thoughts  in  a 
single  breast ;  she  must  belong  to  the  public,  or  rather  the  pub- 
lic must  belong  to  her:  it  is  but  a  corner  of  her  heart  that  an 
individual  can  occupy,  and  even  that  individual  must  merge 
his  existence  in  hers;  must  be  contented  to  reflect  a  ray  of 
the  light  she  sheds  on  admiring  thousands.  Who  could  dare 
to  say  to  you,  'Renounce  your  career;  confine  your  genius, 
your  art,  to  the  petty  circle  of  home?"  To  an  actress — a 
singer — with  whose  fame  the  world  rings,  home  would  be  a 
prison.  Pardon  me,  pardon — " 

Isaura  had  turned  away  her  face  to  hide  tears  that  would 
force  their  way,  but  she  held  out  her  hand  to  him  with  a  child- 
like frankness,  and  said  softly,  "  I  am  not  offended."  Graham 
did  not  trust  himself  to  continue  the  same  strain  of  conversa- 
tion. Breaking  into  a  new  subject,  he  said,  after  a  constrained 
pause  :  ''  Will  you  think  it  very  impertinent  in  so  new  an  ac- 
quaintance, if  I  ask  how  it  is  that  you,  an  Italian,  know  our 
language  as  a  native?  And  is  it  by  Italian  teachers  that  you 
have  been  trained  to  think  and  to  feel?" 

"  Mr.  S-lby,  my  second  father,  was  an  Englishman,  and  did 
not  speak  any  other  language  with  comfort  to  himself.  He 
was  very  fond  of  me,  and  had  he  been  really  my  father  I  could 
not  have  loved  him  more  :  we  were  constant  companions  till — 
till  I  lost  him." 

"  And  no  mother  left  to  console  you."  Isaura  shook  her 
head  mournfully,  and  the  Venosta  here  re-entered. 


THE    PARISIANS.  117 

Graham  felt  conscious  that  he  had  already  stayed  too  long, 
and  took  leave. 

They  knew  that  they  were  to  meet  that  evening  at  the 
Savarins. 

To  Graham  that  thought  was  not  one  of  unmixed  pleas- 
ure ;  the  more  he  knew  of  Isaura,  the  more  he  felt  self- reproach 
that  he  had  allowed  himself  to  know  her  at  all. 

But  after  he  had  left  Isaura  sang  low  to  herself  the  song 
•which  had  so  affected  her  listener  ;  then  she  fell  into  abstracted 
revery,  but-she  felt  a  strange  and  new  sort  of  happiness.  In 
dressing  for  M.  Savarin's  dinner,  and  twining  the  classic  ivy 
wreath  into  her  dark  locks,  her  Italian  servant  exclaimed, 
"  How  beautiful  the  Signorina  looks  to-night !  " 


CHAPTER  III. 

M.  SAVARIN  was  one  of  the  most  brilliant  of  that  galaxy  of 
literary  men  which  shed  lustre  on  the  reign  of  Louis  Philippe. 

His  was  an  intellect  peculiarly  French  in  its  lightness  and 
grace.  Neither  England  nor  Germany  nor  America  has  pro- 
duced any  resemblance  to  it.  Ireland  has,  in  Thomas  Moore  ; 
but  then  in  Irish  genius  there  is  so  much  that  is  French. 

M.  Savarin  was  free  from  the  ostentatious  extravagance  which 
had  come  into  vogue  with  the  Empire.  His  house  and  establish- 
ment were  modestly  maintained  within  the  limit  t  f  an  income 
*  chiefly,  perhaps  entirely,  derived  from  literary  profits. 

Though  he  gave  frequent  dinners,  it  was  but  to  few  at  a  time, 
and  without  show  or  pretence.  Yet  the  dinners,  though  simple, 
were  perfect  of  their  kind  ;  and  the  host  so  contrived  to  infuse 
his  own  playful  gayety  into  the  temper  of  his  guests,  that  the 
feasts  at  his  house  were  considered  the  pleasantest  at  Paris. 
On  this  occasion  the  party  extended  to  ten,  the  largest  number 
his  table  admitted. 

All  the  French  guests  belonged  to  the  Liberal  party,  though 
in  changing  tints  of  the  tricolor.  Place  anx  dames,  first  to  be 
named  were  the  Countess  de  Craon  and  Madame  Vertot,  both 
without  husbands.  The  Countess  had  buried  the  Count, 
Madame  Vertot  had- separated  from  Monsieur.  The  Countess 
was  very  handsome,  but  she  was  sixty.  Madame  Vertot  was 
,  twenty  years  younger,  but  she  was  very  plain.  She  had  quar- 
relled with  the  distinguished  author  for  whose  sake  she  had 
separated  from  Monsieur,  and  no  man  had  since  presumed  to 


Il8  THE    PARISIANS. 

think  that  he  could  console  a  lady  so  plain  for  the  loss  of  an 
author  so  distinguished. 

Both  these  ladies  were  very  clever.  The  Countess  had  writ- 
ten  lyrical  poems  entitled  "  Cries  of  Liberty,"  and  a  drama 
of  which  Danton  was  the  hero,  and  the  moral  too  revolutionary 
for  admission  to  the  stage  ;  but  at  heart  the  Countess  was  not 
at  all  a  revolutionist  ;  the  last  person  in  the  world  to  do  or 
desire  anything  that  could  bring  a  washerwoman  an  inch  nearer 
to  a  countess.  She  was  one  of  those  persons  who  play  with 
fire  in  order  to  appear  enlightened. 

Madame  Vertot  was  of  severer  mould.  She  had  knelt  at 
the  feet  of  M.  Thiers,  and  went  into  the  historico-political  line. 
She  had  written  a  remarkable  book  upon  the  modern  Carthage 
(meaning  England),  and  more  recently  a  work  that  had  ex- 
cited much  attention  upon  the  Balance  of  Power,  in  which 
she  proved  it  to  be  the  interest  of  civilization  and  the  necessity 
of  Europe  that  Belgium  should  be  added  toFrance,  and  Prussia 
circumscribed  to  the  bound  of  its  original  margraviate.  She 
showed  how  easily  these  two  objects  could  have  been  effected 
by  a  constitutional  monarch  instead  of  an  egostistical  Emperor. 
Madame  Vertot  was  a  decided  Orleanist. 

Both  these  ladies  condescended  to  put  aside  authorship  in 
general  society.  Next  amongst  our  guests  let  me  place  the 
Count  de  Passy  and  Madame  son  e'foitse :  the  Count  was 
seventy-one,  and,  it  is  needless  to  add,  a  type  of  Frenchman 
rapidly  vanishing,  and  not  likely  to  find  itself  renewed.  How 
shall  I  describe  him  so  as  to  make  my  English  reader  under- 
stand ?  Let  me  try  by  analogy.  Suppose  a  man  of  great  birth 
and  fortune,  who  in  his  youth  had  been  an  enthusiastic  friend 
of  Lord  Byron  and  a  jocund  companion  of  George  IV.  ;  who 
had  in  him  an  immense  degree  of  lofty,  romantic  sentiment 
with  an  equal  degree  of  well-bred,  worldly  cynicism,  but  who, 
on  account  of  that  admixture,  which  is  rare,  kept  a  high  rank 
in  either  of  the  two  societies  into  which,  speaking  broadly, 
civilized  life  divides  itself,  the  romantic  and  the  cynical.  The 
Count  de  Passy  had  been  the  most  ardent  among  the  young 
disciples  of  Chateaubriand,  the  most  brilliant  among  the  young 
courtiers  of  Charles  X.  Need  I  add  that  he  had  been  a  terri- 
ble lady-killer  ?  . 

But  in  spite  of  his  admiration  of  Chateaubriand  and  his  al- 
legiance to  Charles  X.,  the  Count  had  been  always  true  to 
those  caprices  of  the  French  noblesse  from  which  he  descend- 
ed— caprices  which  destroyed  them  in  the  old  Revolution  ; 
caprices  belonging  to  the  splendid  ignorance  of  their  nation  in 


THE    PARISIANS.  1 19 

general  and  their  order  in  particular.  Speaking  without  re- 
gard to  partial  exceptions,  the  French  gentilhomnu  is  essen- 
tially a  Parisian  ;  a  Parisian  is  essentially  impressionable  to 
the  impulse  or  fashion  of  the  moment.  Is  it  a  la  mode  for  the 
moment  to  be  Liberal  or  anti-Liberal  ?  Parisians  embrace  and 
kiss  each  other,  and  swear  through  life  and  death  to  adhere 
forever  to  the  mode  of  the  moment.  The  Three  Days  were 
the  mode  of  the  moment  ;  the  Count  de  Passy  became  an  en- 
thusiastic Orleanist.  Louis  Philippe  was  very  gracious  to 
him.  He  was  decorated,  he  was  named  prefet  of  his  depart- 
ment ;  he  was  created  senator  ;  he  was  about  to  be  sent  minis- 
ter to  a  German  court  when  Louis  Philippe  fell.  The  Re- 
public was  proclaimed.  The  Count  caught  the  popular  con- 
tagion, and  after  exchanging  tears  and  kisses  with  patriots 
whom  a  week  before  he  had  called  canaille,  he  swore  eternal 
fidelity  to  the  Republic.  The  fashion  of  the  moment  suddenly 
became  Napoleonic,  and  with  the  coup  aetat  the  Republic  was 
metamorphosed  into  an  Empire.  The  Count  wept  on  the 
bosoms  of  all  the  Vicilles  Moustaches  he  could  find,  and  re- 
joiced that  the  sun  of  Austerlitz  had  rearisen.  But  after  the 
affair  of  Mexico  the  sun  of  Austerlitz  waxed  very  sickly.  Im- 
perialism was  fast  going  out  of  fashion.  ^  The  Count  trans- 
ferred his  affection  to  Jules  Favre,  and  joined  the  ranks  of  the 
advanced  Liberals.  During  all  these  political  changes,  *be 
Count  had  remained  very  much  the  same  man  in  private  life; 
agreeable,  good-natured,  witty,  and,  above  all,  a  devotee  of  the 
fair  sex.  When  he  had  reached  the  age  of  sixty-eight  he  was 
still  fort  bel  homme — unmarried,  with  a  grand  presence  and 
charming  manner.  At  that  age  he  said,  " Je  me  range"  and 
married  a  young  lady  of  eighteen.  She  adored  her  husband, 
and  was  wildly  jealous  of  him  ;  while  the  Count  did  not  seem 
at  all  jealous  of  her,  and  submitted  to  her  adoration  with  a 
gentle  shrug  of  the  shoulders. 

The  three  other  guests  who,  with  Graham  and  the  two 
Italian  ladies,  made  up  the  complement  of  ten,  were  the  Ger- 
man Count  von  Rudesheim,  a  celebrated  French  physician 
named  Bacon rt,  and  a  young  author  whom  Savarin  had  admit- 
ted into  his  clique,  and  declared  to  be  of  rare  promise.  This 
author,  whose  real  name  was  Gustave  Rameau,  bnt  who,  to 
prove,  I  suppose,  the  sincerity  of  that  scorn  for  ancestry  which 
he  professed,  published  his  verses  under  the  patrician  designa- 
tion of  Alphonse  de  Valcour,  was  about  twenty-four,  and 
might  have  passed  at  the  first  glance  for  younger  ;  but,  looking 


120  THE   PARISIANS. 

at  him  closely,  the  signs  of  old  age  were  already  stamped  on 
his  visage. 

He  was  undersized,  and  of  a  feeble,  slender  frame.  In  the 
eyes  of  women  and  artists  the  defects  of  his  frame  were  re- 
deemed by  the  extraordinary  beauty  of  the  face.  His  black 
hair,  carefully  parted  in  the  centre,  and  worn  long  and  flowing, 
contrasted  the  whiteness  of  a  high,  though  narrow  forehead, 
and  the  delicate  pallor  of  his  cheeks.  His  features  were  very 
regular,  his  eyes  singularly  bright  ;  but  the  expression  of  the 
face  spoke  of  fatigue  and  exhaustion  ;  the  silky  locks  were 
already  thin,  and  interspersed  with  threads  of  silver ;  the 
bright  eyes  shone  out  from  sunken  orbits  ;  the  lines  round  the 
mouth  were  marked  as  they  are  in  the  middle  age  of  one  who 
has  lived  too  fast. 

It  was  a  countenance  that  might  have  excited  a  compassion- 
ate and  tender  interest,  but  for  something  arrogant  and  super- 
cilious in  the  expression — something  that  demanded  not  tender 
pity  -but  enthusiastic  admiration.  Yet  that  expression  was 
displeasing  rather  to  men  than  to  women  ;  and  one  could  well 
conceive  that,  among  the  latter,  the  enthusiastic  admiration  it 
challenged  would  be  largely  conceded. 

The  conversation  at  dinner  was  in  complete  contrast  to  that 
at  the  American's  the  day  before.  There  the  talk,  though 
animated,  had  been  chiefly  earnest  and  serious  ;  here  it  was  all 
td*lich  and  go,  sally  and  repartee.  The  subjects  were  the  light 
on  dits  and  lively  anecdotes  of  the  day,  not  free  from  literature 
and  politics,  but  both  treated  as  matters  of  persiflage,  hovered 
round  with  a  jest  and  quitted  with  an  epigram.  The  two  French 
lady  authors,  the  Count  de  Passy,  the  physician,  and  the  host, 
far  outshone  all  the  other  guests.  Now  and  then,  however,  the 
German  Count  struck  in  with  an  ironical  remark  condensing  a 
great  deal  of  grave  wisdom,  and  the  young  author  with  ruder 
and  more  biting  sarcasm.  If  the  sarcasm  told,  he  showed  his 
triumph  by  a  low-pitched  laugh  ;  if  it  failed,  he  evinced  his 
displeasure  by  a  contemptuous  sneer  or  a  grim  scowl. 

Isaura  and  Graham  were  not  seated  near  each  other,  and 
were  for  the  most  part  contented  to  be  listeners. 

On  adjourning  to  the  salon  after  dinner,  Graham,  however, 
was  approaching  the  chair  in  which  Isaura  had  placed  herself, 
when  the  young  author,  forestalling  him,'  dropped  into  the  seat 
next  to  her,  and  began  a  conversation  in  a  voice  so  low  that  it 
might  have  passed  for  a  whisper.  The  Englishman  drew  back 
and  observed  them.  He  soon  perceived,  with  a  pang  of  jeal- 
ousy not  unmingled  with  scorn,  that  the  author's  talk  appeared 


THE    PARISIANS.  121 

to  interest  Isanra.  She  listened  with  evident  attention  ;  and 
when  she  spoke  in  return,  though  Graham  did  not  hear  her 
words,  he  could  observe  on  "her  expressive  countenance  an 
increased  gentleness  of  aspect. 

"  I  hope,"  said  the  physician,  joining  Graham,  as  most  of 
the  other  guests  gathered  round  Savarin,  who  was  in  his  liveli- 
est vein  of  anecdote  and  wit — "  I  hope  that  the  fair  Italian 
will  not  allow  that  ink-bottle  imp  to  persuade  her  that  she  has 
fallen  in  love  with  him." 

"  Do  young  ladies  generally  find  him  so  seductive  ?  "  asked 
Graham,  with  a  forced  smile. 

"  Probably  enough.  He  has  the  reputation  of  being  very 
clever  and  very  wicked,  and  that  is  a  sort  of  character  which 
has  the  serpent's  fascination  for  the  daughters  of  Eve." 

"  Is  the  reputation  merited  ?  " 

"  As  to  the  cleverness,  I  am  not  a  fair  judge.  I  dislike  that 
sort  of  writing  which  is  neither  manlike  nor  womanlike,  and  in 
which  young  Rameau  excels.  He  has  the  knack  of  finding 
very  exaggerated  phrases  by  which  to  express  commonplace 
thoughts.  He  writes  verses  about  love  in  words  so  stormy  that 
you  might  fancy  that  Jove  was  descending  upon  Semele.  But 
when  you  examine  his  words,  as  a  sober  pathologist  like  myself 
is  disposed  to  do,  your  fear  for  the  peace  of  households  vanishes  : 
they  are  '  Vox  et prater ea  ni/ril';  no  man  really  in  love  would 
use  them.  He  writes  prose  about  the  wrongs  of  humanity. 
You  feel  for  humanity.  You  say,  '  Grant  the  wrongs,  now  for 
the  remedy,'  and  you  find  nothing  but  balderdash.  Still  I  am 
bound  to  say  that  both  in  verse  and  prose  Gustave  Rameau  is 
in  unison  with  a  corrupt  taste  of  the  day,  and  therefore  he  is 
coming  into  vogue.  So  much  as  to  his  writings  ;  as  to  his 
wickedness,  you  have  only  to  look  at  him  to  feel  sure  that  he 
is  not  a  hundredth  part  so  wicked  as  he  wishes  to  see.m.  In  a 
word,  then,  Mons.  Gustave  Rameau  is  a  type  of  that  somewhat 
numerous  class  among  the  youth  of  Paris,  which  I  call  'the 
lost  tribe  of  Absinthe.'  There  is  a  set  of  men  who  begin  to 
live  full  gallop  while  they  are  still  boys.  As  a  general  rule 
they  are  "originally  of  the  sickly  frames  which  can  scarcely  even 
trot,  much  less  gallop,  without  the  spur  of  stimulants,  and  no 
stimulant  so  fascinates  their  peculiar  nervous  system  as  ab- 
sinthe. The  number  of  patients  in  this  set  who  at  the  age  of 
thirty  are  more  worn  out  than  septuagenarians,  increases  so 
rapidly  as  to  make  one  dread  to  think  what  will  be  the  next 
race  of  Frenchmen.  To  the  predilection  for  absinthe  young 
Rameau  and  the  writers  of  his  set  add  the  imitation  of  Heine, 


122  THE    PARISIANS. 

after,  indeed,  the  manner  of  caricaturists,  who  effect  a  likeness 
striking  in  proportion  as  it  is  ugly.  It  is  not  easy  to  imitate 
the  pathos  and  the  wit  of  Heine  p4jut  it  is  easy  to  imitate  his 
defiance  of  the  Deity,  his  mockery  of  right  and  wrong,  his  re- 
lentless war  on  that  heroic  standard  of  thought  and  action 
which  the  writers  who  exalt  their  nation  intuitively  preserve. 
Rameau  cannot  be  a  ?Ieine,  but  he  can  be  to  Heine  what  a 
misshapen,  snarling  dwarf  is  to  a  mangled,  blaspheming  Titan. 
Yet  he  interests  the  women  in  general,  and  he  evidently  inter- 
ests the  fair  Signorina  in  especial." 

Just  as  Bacourt  finished  that  last  sentence,  Isa*ura  lifted  the 
head  which  had  hitherto  bent  in  an  earnest  listening  attitude 
that  seemed  to  justify  the  Doctor's  remarks,  and  looked 
round.  Her  eyes  met  Graham's  with  the  fearless  candor 
which  made  half  the  charm  of  their  bright  yet  soft  intelligence. 
But  she  dropped  them  suddenly  with  a  half-start  and  a  change 
of  color,  for  the  expression  of  Graham's  face  was  unlike  that 
which  she  had  hitherto  seen  on  it ;  it  was  hard,  stern,  some- 
what disdainful.  A  minute  or  so  afterwards  she  rose,  and  in 
passing  across  the  room  towards  the  group  round  the  host, 
paused  at  a  table  covered  with  books  and  prints  near  to  which 
Graham  was  standing,  alone.  The  doctor  had  departed  in 
company  with  the  German  Count. 

Isaura  took  up  one  of  the  prints. 

"  Ah  !  "  she  exclaimed,  "  Sorrento — my  Sorrento.  Have  you 
ever  visited  Sorrento,  Mr.  Vane?" 

Her  question  and  her  movement  were  evidently  in  concilia- 
tion. Was  the  conciliation  prompted  by  coquetry,  or  by  a 
sentiment  more  innocent  and  artless? 

Graham  doubted,  and  replied  coldly,  as  he  bent  over  the 
print : 

"  I  once  stayed  there  a  few  days,  but  my  recollection  of  it  is 
not  sufficiently  lively  to  enable  me  to  recognize  its  features  in 
this  design." 

"That  is  the  house,  at  least  so  they  say,  of  Tasso's  father  ; 
of  course  you  visited  that?" 

"Yes,  it  was  a  hotel  in  my  time  ;  I  lodged  there." 

"And  I  too.  There  I  first  read  the  '  Gerusalemme.'"  The 
last  words  were  said  in  Italian,  with  a  low,  measured  tone,  in- 
wardly and  dreamily. 

A  somewhat  sharp  and  incisive  voice  speaking  in  French 
here  struck  in  and  prevented  Graham's  rejoinder:  "  Quel  joli 
dessin!  What  is  it,  Mademoiselle?" 

Graham  recoiled  :  the  speaker  was  Gustave  Rameau,  who 


THE    PARISIANS.  12$ 

had,  unobserved,  first  watched  Isaura,  then  rejoined  her 
side. 

"A  view  of  Sorrento,  Monsieur,  but  it  does  not  do  justice 
to  the  place.  I  was  pointing  out  the  house  which  belonged  to 
Tasso's  father." 

"Tasso!      Hein!     And  which  is  the  fair  Eleonora's  ?" 

"Monsieur,"  answered  Isaura,  rather  startled  at  that  question 
from  a  professed  homme  de  lettres,  "  Eleonora  did  not  live  at 
Sorrento." 

"  Tant  pis  pour  Sorrente"  said  the  homme  de  lettres  carelessly. 
"  No  one  would  care  for  Tasso  if  it  were  not  for  Eleonora." 

"I  should  rather  have  thought,"  said  Graham,  "that  no  one 
would  have  cared  for  Eleonora  if  it  was  not  for  Tasso." 

Rameau  glanced  at  the  Englishman  superciliously. 

"Pardon,  Monsieur,  in  every  age  a  love-story  keeps  its  inter- 
est ;  but  who  cares  nowadays  for  le  clinquant  du  Tasse?" 

"  Le  clinquant  du  Tassef"  exclaimed  Isaura  indignantly. 

"The  expression  is  Boileau's,  Mademoiselle,  in  ridicule  of 
the  '  Sot  de  qualite,'  who  prefers 

'  Le  clinquant  du  Tasse  a  tout  1'or  de  Virgile.' 

But  for  my  part  *I  have  as  little  faith  in  the  last  as  the 
first." 

"  I  do  not  know  Latin,  and  have  therefore  not  read  Virgil," 
said  Isaura. 

"Possibly,"  remarked  Graham,  "Monsieur  does  not  know 
Italian,  and  has  therefore  not  read  Tasso." 

"If  that  be  meant  in  sarcasm,"  retorted  Rameau,  "I  con- 
strue it  as  a  compliment.  A  Frenchman  who  is  contented  to 
study  the  masterpieces  of  modern  literature  need  learn  no  lan- 
guage and  read  no  authors  but  his  own." 

Isaura  laughed  her  pleasant,  silvery  laugh.  "  I  should  admire 
the  frankness  of  that  boast,  Monsieur,  if  in  our  talk  just  now 
you  had  not  spoken  as  contemptuously  of  what  we  are  accus- 
tomed to  consider  French  masterpieces  as  you  have  done  of 
Virgil  and  Tasso." 

"Ah,  Mademoiselle,  it  is  not  my  fault  if  you  have  had  teach- 
ers of  taste  so  rococo  as  to  bid  you  find  masterpieces  in  the 
tiresome,  stilted  tragedies  of  Corneille  and  Racine.  Poetry  of 
a  court,  not  of  a  people ;  one  simple  novel,  one  simple  stanza 
that  probes  the  hidden  recesses  of  the  human  heart,  reveals 
the  sores  of  this  wretched  social  state,  denounces  the  evils  of 
superstition,  kingcraft,  and  priestcraft,  is  worth  a  library  of  the 
rubbish  whicji  pedagogues  call  'the  classics.'  We  agree,  at 


124  THE    PARISIANS. 

least,  in  one  tiling,  Mademoiselle ;  we  both  do  homage  to  the 
genius  of  your  friend,  Madame  de  Grantmesnil." 

"  Your  trend,  Signorina  !  "  said  Graham  incredulously  ;  "  Is 
Madame  de  Grantmesnil  your  friend?  " 

"  The  dearest  I  have  in  the  world." 

G rah. im's  face  darkened  ;  he  turned  away  in  silence,  and  in 
another  minute  vanished  from  the  room,  persuading  himself 
that  he  felt  not  one  pang  of  jealousy  in  leaving  Gustave 
Rameau  by  the  side  of  Isaura.  "  Her  dearest  friend  Madame 
de  Grantmesnil !  "  he  muttered. 

A  word  now  on  Isaura's  chief  correspondent.  Madame  de 
Grantmesnil  was  a  woman  of  noble  birth  and  ample  fortune. 
She  had  separated  from  her  husband  in  the  second  year  after 
marriage.  She  was  a  singularly  eloquent  writer,  surpassed 
among  contemporaries  of  her  sex  in  popularity  and  renown 
only  by  Georges  Sand. 

At  least  as  fearless  as  that  great  novelist  in  the  frank  exposi- 
tion of  her  view>,  she  had  commenced  her  career  in  letters  by 
a  work  of  astonishing  power  and  pathos,  directed  against  the 
institution  of  marriage  as  regulated  in  Roman  Catholic  com- 
munities. I  do  not  know  that  it  said  more  on  this  delicate 
subject  than  the  English  Milton  has  said  ;  but  then  Milton  did 
not  write  for  a  Roman  Catholic  community,  nor  adopt  a  style 
likely  to  captivate  the  working  classes.  Madame  de  Grant- 
rnesmil's  first  book  was  deemed  an  attack  on  the  religion  of 
the  country,  and  captivated  those  among  the  working  classes 
who  had  already  abjured  that  religion.  This  work  was  followed 
up  by  others  more  or  less  in  defiance  of  "  received  opinions  "; 
some  with  political,  some  with  social  revolutionary  aim  and 
tendency,  but  always  with  a  singular  purity  of  style.  Search 
all  her  bodies,  and  however  you  might  revolt  from  her  doctrine, 
you  could  not  find  a  hazardous  expresssion.  The  navels  of 
English  young  ladies  are  naughty  in  comparison.  Of  late 
years,  whatever  might  be  hard  or  audacious  in  her  political  or 
social  doctrines  softened  itself  into  charm  amid  the  golden 
haze  of  romance.  Her  writings  had  grown  more  and  more 
purely  artistic — poetizing  what  is  good  and  beautiful  in  the 
realities  of  life,  rather  than  creating  a  false  ideal  out  of  what 
is  vicious  and  deformed.  Such  a  woman,  separated  young 
from  her  husband,  could  not  enunciate  such  opinions  and  lead 
a  life  so  independent  and  uncontrolled  as  Madame  de  Grant- 
mesnil had  done,  without  scandal,  without  calumny.  Nothing, 
however,  in  her  actual  life,  had  ever  been  so  proved  against 
her  as  to  lower  the  high  position  she  occupied  in  right  of  birth, 


THE    PARISIANS.  1 25 

fortune,  renown.  Wherever  she  went  she  wasfetie;  as  ins 
England  foreign  princes,  and  in  America  foreign  authors,  are 
fetes.  Those  who  knew  her  well  concurred  in  praise  of  her 
lofty,  generous,  lovable  qualities.  Madame  de  Grantmesnil 
had  known  Mr.  Selby  ;  and  when  at  his  death,  Isaura,  in  the 
inno-ent  age  between  childhood  and  youth,  had  been  left  the 
most  sorrowful  and  most  lonely  creature  on  the  face  of  the 
earth,  this  famous  woman,  worshipped  by  the  rich  for  her  in- 
tellect, adored  by  the  poor  for  her  beneficence,  came  to  the 
orphan's  friendless  side,  breathing  love  once  more  into  her 
pining  heart,  and  waking  for  the  first  time  the  desires  of 
genius,  the  aspirations  of  art,  in  the  dim  self-consciousness  of 
a  soul  between  sleep  and  waking. 

But,  my  dear  Englishman,  put  yourself  in  Graham's  place,  and; 
suppose  that  you  were  beginning  to  fall  in  love  with  a  gill 
whom  for  many  good  reasons  you  ought  not  to  marry  ;  suppose 
that  in  the  same  hour  in  which  you  were  angrily  conscious  of 
jealousy  on  account  of  a  man  whom  it  wounds  your  self-esteem 
to  consider  a  rival,  the  girl  tells  you  that  her  dearest  friend  is  a 
woman  who  is  famed  for  her  hostility  to  the  institution  of 
marriage  ! 


CHAPTER  IV. 

ON  the  same  day  in  which  Graham  dined  with  the  Savarins, 
M.  Louvier  assembled  round  his  table  the  elite  of  the  young. 
Parisians  who  constituted  the  oligarchy  of  fashion,  to  meet 
whom  he  had  invited  his  new  friend  the  Marquis  de  Roche- 
briant.  Most  of  them  belonged  to  the  Legitimist  party — the 
noblesse  of  the  faubourg ;  those  who  did  not  belonged  to  no 
political  party  at  all — indifferent  to  the  cares  of  mortal  States 
as  the  gods  of  Epicurus.  Foremost  among  this  jeunesse  doree 
were  Alain's  kinsmen,  Raoul  and  Enguerrand  de  Vandemar. 
To  these  Louvier  introduced  him  with  a  burly  parental  bon- 
homie, as  if  he  were  the  head  of  the  family.  "I  need  not  bid 
you,  young  folks,  to  make  friends  with  each  other.  A  Vande- 
mar and  a  Rochebriant  are  not  made  friends,  they  are  born 
friends."  So  saying  he  turned  to  his  other  guests. 

Almost  in  an  instant  Alain  felt  his  constraint  melt  away  in 
the  cordial  warmth  with  which  his  cousins  greeted  him. 

These  young  men  had  a  striking  family  likeness  to  each 
other,  and  yet  in  feature,  coloring,  and  expression,  in  all  save 
that  strange  family  likeness,  they  were  contrasts. 


iz6  THE    PARISIANS. 

Raoul  was  tall,  and,  though  inclined  to  be  slender,  with 
sufficient  breadth  of  shoulder  to  indicate  no  inconsiderable 
strength  of  frame.  His  hair  worn  short,  and  his  silky  beard 
worn  long,  were  dark  ;  so  were  his  eyes,  shaded  by  curved 
drooping  lashes  ;  his  complexion  was  pale,  but  clear  and 
healthful.  In  repose  the  expression  of  his  face  was  that  of  a 
somewhat  melancholy  indolence,  but  in  speaking  it  became 
singularly  sweet,  with  a  smile  of  the  exquisite  urbanity  which 
no  artificial  politeness  can  bestow  ;  it  must  emanate  from  that 
native  high  breeding  which  has  its  source  in  goodness  of  heart. 

Enguerrand  was  fair,  with  curly  locks  of  a  golden  chestnut. 
He  wore  no  beard,  only  a  small  moustache  rather  darker  than 
his  hair.  His  complexion  might  in  itself  be  called  effeminate, 
its  bloom  was  so  fresh  and  delicate,  but  there  was  so  much  of 
boldness  and  energy  in  the  play  of  his  countenance,  the  hardy 
outline  of  the  lips,  and  the  open  breadth  of  the  forehead,  that 
"  effeminate  "  was  an  epithet  no  one  ever  assigned  to  his  aspect. 
He  was  somewhat  under  the  middle  height,  but  beautifully 
proportioned,  carried  himself  well,  and  somehow  or  other  did 
not  look  short  even  by  the  side  of  tall  men.  Altogether  he 
seemed  formed  to  be  a  mother's  darling,  and  spoiled  by  women, 
yet  to  hold  his  own  among  men  with  a  strength  of  will  more 
evident  in  his  look  and  his  bearing  than  it  was  in  those  of  his 
graver  and  statelier  brother. 

Both  were  considered  by  their  young  co-equals  models  in 
dress,  but  in  Raoul  there  was  no  sign  that  care  or  thought  upon 
dress  had  been  bestowed  ;  the  simplicity  of  his  costume  was 
absolute  and  severe.  On  his  plain  shirt  front  there  gleamed 
not  a  stud,  on  his  fingers  there  sparkled  not  a  ring.  Enguer- 
rand, on  the  contrary,  was  not  without  pretension  in  his  attire  ; 
the  broderie  in  his  shirt-front  seemed  woven  by  the  Queen  of 
the  Fairies.  His  rings  of  turquoise  and  opal,  his  studs  and 
wrist-buttons  of  pearl  and  brilliants,  must  have  cost  double  the 
rental  of  Rochebriant,  but  probably  they  cost  him  nothing. 
He  was  one  of  those  happy  Lotharios  to  whom  Calistas  make 
constant  presents.  All  about  him  was  so  bright  that  the  at- 
mosphere around  seemed  gayer  for  his  presence. 

In  one  respect  at  least  the  brothers  closely  resembled  each 
other ;  in  that  exquisite  graciousness  of  manner  for  which  the 
genuine  French  noble  is  traditionally  renowned — a  gracious- 
ness  that  did  not  desert  them  even  when  they  came  reluctantly 
into  contact  with  roiuriers  or  Republicans  ;  but  the  gracious- 
ne.ss  became  Sgalite,  fraternile  towards  one  of  their  caste  and 
kindred. 


THE    PARISIANS.  127 

"  We  must  do  our  best  to  make  Paris  pleasant  to  you,"  said 
Raoul,  still  retaining  in  his  grasp  the  hand  he  had  taken. 

"  Vilain  cousin"  said  the  livelier  Enguerrand,  "  to  have  been 
in  Paris  twenty-four  hours,  and  without  letting  us  know;" 

"  Has  not  your  father  told  you  that  I  called  upon  him  ?  " 

"  Our  father,"  answered  Raoul,  "  was  not  so  savage  as  to 
conceal  that  fact,  but  he  said  you  were  only  here  on  business 
for  a  day  or  two,  had  declined  his  invitation,  and  would  not 
give  your  address.  Pauvre pcre  !  we  scolded  him  well  for  let- 
ling  you  escape  from  us  thus.  My  mother  has  not  forgiven 
him  yet  ;  we  must  present  you  to  her-to-morrow.  I  answer 
for  your  liking  her  almost  as  much  as  she  will  like  you." 

Before  Alain  could  answer  dinner  was  announced.  Alain's 
place  at  dinner  was  between  his  cousins.  How  pleasant  they 
made  themselves  !  It  was  the  first  time  in  which  Alain  had 
been  brought  into  such  familiar  conversation  with  countrymen 
of  his  own  rank  as  well  as  his  own  age.  His  heart  warmed  to 
them.  The  general  talk  of  the  other  guests  was  strange  to  his 
ear  ;  it  ran  much  upon  horses  and  races,  upon  the  opera  and 
the  ballet ;  it  was  enlivened  with  satirical  anecdotes  of  persons 
whose  names  were  unknown  to  the  Provincial  ;  not  a  word  was 
said  that  showed  the  smallest  interest  in  politics  or  the  slightest 
acquaintance  with  literature.  The  world  of  these  well-born 
guests  seemed  one  from  which  all  that  concerned  the  great 
mass  of  mankind  was  excluded,  yet  the  talk  was  that  which 
could  only  be  found  in  a  very  polished  society  ;  in  it  there  was 
not  much  wit,  but  there  was  a  prevalent  vein  of  gayety,  and  the 
gayety  was  never  violent,  the  laughter  was  never  loud  ;  the 
scandals  circulated  might  imply  cynicism  the  most  absolute, 
but  in  language  the  most  refined.  The  Jockey  Club  of  Paris 
has  its  perfume. 

Raoul  did  not  mix  in  the  general  conversation  ;  he  devoted 
himself  pointedly  to  the  amusement  of  his  cousin,  explaining 
to  him  the  point  of  the  anecdotes  circulated,  or  hitting  off  in 
terse  sentences  the  characters  of  the  talkers. 

Enguerrand  was  evidently  of  temper  more  vivacious  than  his 
brother,  and  contributed  freely  to  the  current  play  of  light 
gossip  and  mirthful  sally. 

Louvier,  seated  between  a  duke  and  a  Russian  prince,  said 
little,  except  to  recommend  a  wine  or  an  entree,  but  kept  his 
eye  constantly  on  the  Vandemars  and  Alain. 

Immediately  after  coffee  the  guests  departed.  Before  they 
did  so,  however,  Raoul  introduced  his  cousin  to  those  of  the 
party  most  distinguished  by  hereditary  rank  or  social  position. 


128  THE    PARISIANS. 

/ 

With  these  the  name  of  Rochebriant  was  too  historically  famous 
not  to  insure  respect  of  its  owner  ;  they  welcomed  him  among 
them  as  if  he  were  their  brother. 

The  French  duke  claimed  him  as  a  connection  by  an  alli- 
ance in  the  .fourteenth  century  ;  the  Russian  prince  had 
known  the  late  Marquis,  and  "  trusted  that  the  son  would 
allow  him  to  improve  into  friendship  the  acquaintance  he  had 
formed  with  the  father." 

Those  ceremonials  over,  Raoul  linked  his  arm  in  Alain's, 
and  said  :  "  I  am  not  going  to  release  you  so  soon  after  we 
have  caught  you.  You  must  come  with  me  to  a  house  in 
which  I  at  least  spend  an  hour  or  two  every  evening.  I  am  at 
home  there.  Bah  !  I  take  no  refusal.  Do  not  suppose  I  carry 
you  off  to  Bohemia,  a  country  which,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  En- 
guerrand  now  and  then  visits,  but  which  is  to  me  as  unknown 
as  the  mountains  of  the  moon.  The  house  I  speak  of  is  coinme 
il  faut  to  the  utmost.  It  is  that  of  the  Contessa  di  Rimini  ; 
a  charming  Italian  by  marriage,  but  by  birth  and  in  character 
on  ne  peut plus  Fran$aise.  My  mother  adores  her.'' 

That  dinner  at  M.  Louvier's  had  already  effected  a  great 
change  in  the  mood  and  temper  of  Alain  de  Rochebriant ;  he 
felt,  as  if  by  magic,  the  sense  of  youth,  of  rank,  of  station, 
which  had  been  so  suddenly  checked  and  stifled,  warmed  to 
life  within  his  veins.  He  should  have  deemed  himself  a  boor 
had  he  refused  the  invitation  so  frankly  tendered. 

But  on  reaching  the  coupe  which  the  brothers  kept  in  com- 
mon, and  seeing  it  only  held  two,  he  drew  back. 

"  Nay,  enter,  man  cher"  said  Raoul,  divining  the  cause  of 
his  hesitation,  "  Enguerrand  has  gone  on  to  his  club." 


CHAPTER  V. 

"  TELL  me,"  said  Raoul,  when  they  were  in  the  carriage, 
"how  you  came  to  know  M.  Louvier." 

"  He  is  my  chief  mortgagee." 

"  H'm  !  that  explains  it.  But  you  might  be  in  worse  hands  ; 
the  man  has  a  character  for  liberality." 

"Did"  your  father  mention  to  you  my  circumstances,  and 
the  reason  that  brings  me  to  Paris?" 

"  Since  you  put  the  question  point-blank,  my  dear  cousin,  he 
did." 

"  He  told  you  how  poor  I  am,  and  how  keen  must  be  my 
lifelong  struggle  to  keep  Rochebriant  as  the  home  of  my  race." 


THE    PARISIANS.  If 9 

"  He  told  us  all  that  could  make  us  still  more  respect  the 
\  [arquis  de  Rochebriant,  and  still  more  eagerly  long  to  know 
bdr  cousin  and  the  head  of  our  house,"  answered  Raoul,  with 
a  certain  nobleness  of  tone  and  manner. 

Alain  pressed  his  kinsman's  hand  with  grateful  emotion. 

"  Yet,"  he  said  falteringly,  "  your  father  agreed  with  me 
that  my  circumstances  would  not  allow  me  to —  " 

•'  Bah  !  "  interrupted  Raoul  with  a  gentle  laugh  ;  "  my  father 
is  a  very  clever  man,  doubtless,  but  he  knows  only  the  world 
of  his  own  day,  nothing  of  the  world  of  ours.  I  and  Enguer- 
rand  will  call  on  you  to-morrow,  to  take  you  to  my  mother, 
and  before  doing  so,  to  consult  as  to  affairs  in  general.  On, 
this  last  matter  Enguerrand  is  an  oracle.  Here  we  are  at  the 
Contessa's.'- 

CHAPTER  VI. 

THE  Contessa  di  Rimini  received  her  visitors  in  a  boudoir 
furnished  with  much  apparent  simplicity,  but  a  simplicity  by 
no  means  inexpensive.  The  draperies  were  but  of  chintz,  and 
the  walls  covered  with  the  same  material,  a  lively  pattern,  in 
which  the  prevalent  tints  were  rose-color  and  white  ;  but  the  or- 
naments on  the  mantel-piece,  the  china  stored  in  the  cabinets  or 
arranged  on  the  shelves,  the  small  nicknacks  scattered  on  the 
tables,  were  costly  rarities  of  art. 

The  Contessa  herself  was  a  woman  who  had  somewhat 
passed  her  thirtieth  year,  not  strikingly  handsome,  bu>:  exqui- 
sitely pretty.  "  There  is,"  said  a  great  French  writer,  "  only 
one  way  in  which  a  woman  can  be  handsome,  but  a  hundred 
thousand  ways  in  which  she  can  be  pretty";  and  it  would  be 
impossible  to  reckon  up  the  number  of  ways  in  which  Adeline 
di  Rimini  carried  off  the  prize  in  prettiness. 

Yet  it  would  be  unjust  to  the  personal  attractions  of  the 
Contessa  to  class  them  all  underthe  word  "  prettiness."  When 
regarded  more  attentively,  there  was  an  expression  in  her 
countenance  that  might  almost  be  called  divine,  it  spoke  so 
unmistakably  of  a  sweet  nature  and  an  untroubled  soul.  An 
English  poet  once  described  her  by  repeating  the  old  lines  : 

"  Her  face  is  like  the  milky  way  i'  the  sky — 
A  meeting  of  gentle  lights  without  a  name." 

She  was  not  alone  ;  an  elderly  lady  sate  on  an  arm-chair  by 
the  fire,  engaged  in  knitting ;  and  a  man,  also  elderly,  and 


130  THE    PARISIANS. 

whose  dress  proclaimed  him  an  ecclesiastic,  sate  at  the  opposite 
corner  with  a  large  Angora  cat  on  his  lap. 

"  I  present  to  you,  Madame,"  said  Raoul,  "  my  new-found 
cousin,  the  seventeenth  Marquis  de  Rochebriant,  whom  I  am 
proud  to  consider,  on  the  male  side,  the  head  of  our  house, 
representing  its  eldest  branch  :  welcome  him  for  my  sake  ;  in 
future  he  will  be  welcome  for  his  own." 

The  Contessa  replied  very  graciously  to  this  introduction, 
and  made  room  for  Alain  on  the  divan  from  which  she  had 
risen. 

The  old  lady  looked  up  from  her  knitting  ;  the  ecclesiastic 
removed  the  cat  from  his  lap.  Said  the  old  lady  :  "I  an- 
nounce myself  to  M.  le  Marquis  ;  I  knew  his  mother  well 
enough  to  be  invited  to  his  christening  ;  otherwise  I  have  no 
pretension  to  the  acquaintance  of  si  beau  a  cavalier,  being  old, 
rather  deaf,  very  stupid,  exceedingly  poor — " 

"And,"  interrupted  Raoul,  "the  woman  in  all  Paris  the 
most  adored  for  bonte,  and  consulted  for  savoir  vivre  by  the 
young  cavaliers  whom  she  deigns  to  receive.  Alain, 'I  present 
you  to  Madame  de  Maury,  the  widow  of  a  distinguished  au- 
thor and  academician,  and  the  daughter  of  the  brave  Henri 
de  Gerval,  who  fought  for  the  good  cause  in  La  Vendee.  I 
present  you  also  to  the  Abbe  Vertpre,  who  has  passed  his  life  in 
the  vain  endeavor  to  make  other  men  as  good  as  himself." 

"  Base  flatterer  !  "  said  the  Abbe",  pinching  Raoul's  ear  with 
one  hand,  while  he  extended  the  other  to  Alain.  "  Do  not  let 
your  cousin  frighten  you  from  knowing  me,  M.  le  Marquis  ; 
when  he  was  my  pupil,  he  so  convinced  me  of  the  incorrigi- 
bility  of  perverse  human  nature,  that  I  now  chiefly  address  my- 
self to  the  moral  improvement  of  the  brute  creation.  Ask  the 
Contessa  if  I  have  not  achieved  a  beau  succes  with  her  Angora 
cat.  Three  months  ago  that  creature  had  the  two  worst  pro- 
pensities of  men.  He  was  at  once  savage  and  mean  ;  he  bit, 
he  stole.  Does  he  ever  bite  now  ?  No.  Does  he  ever  steal  ? 
No.  Why  ?  I  have  awakened  in  that  cat  the  dormant  con- 
science, and  that  done,  the  conscience  regulates  his  actions  : 
once  made  aware  of  the  difference  between  wrong  and  right, 
the  cat  maintains  it  unswervingly,  as  if  it  were  a  law  of  nature. 
But  if,  with  prodigious  labor,  one  does  awaken  conscience  in  a 
human  sinner,  it  has  no  steady  effect  on  his  conduct  ;  he  con- 
tinues to  sin  all  the  same.  Mankind  at  Paris,  Monsieur  le  Mar- 
quis, is  divided  between  two  classes  :  one  bites  and  the  other 
steals  ;  shun  both  ;  devote  yourself  to  cats." 

The  Abbe  delivered  this  oration  with  a  gravity  of  mien  and 


THE    PARISIANS.  13! 

tone  which  made  it  difficult  to  guess  whether  he  spoke  in  sport 
or  in  earnest ;  in  simple  playfulness  or  with  latent  sarcasm. 

But  on  the  brow  and  in  the  eye  of  the  priest  there  was  a  gen- 
eral expression  of  quiet  benevolence,  which  made  Alain  incline 
to  the  belief  that  he  was  only  speaking  as  a  pleasant  humorist ; 
and  the  Marquis  replied  gayly : 

"  Monsieur  1'Abbe,  admitting  the  superior  virtue  of  cats, 
when  taught  by  so  intelligent  a  preceptor,  still  the  business  of 
human  life  is  not  transacted  by  cats  ;  and  since  men  must  deal 
with  men,  permit  me,  as  a  preliminary  caution,  to  inquire  in 
which  class  I  must  rank  yourself.  Do  you  bite  or  do  you  steal  ? " 

This  sally,  which  showed  that  the  Marquis  was  already  shak- 
ing off  his  provincial  reserve,  met  with  great  success. 

Raoul  and  the  Contessa  laughed  merrily  ;  Madame  de  Maury 
clapped  her  hands,  and  cried,  "Bien  !  " 

The  Abbe  replied,  with  unmoved  gravity  :  "  Both.  I  am  a 
priest ;  it  is  my  duty  to  bite  the  bad  and  steal  from  the  good, 
as  you  will  see,  M.  le  Marquis,  if  you  will  glance  at  this  paper." 

Here  he  handed  to  Alain  a  memorial  on  behalf  of  an  afflicted 
family  who  had  been  burnt  out  of  their  home,  and  reduced 
from  comparative  ease  to  absolute  want.  There  was  a  list  ap- 
pended of  some  twenty  subscribers,  the  last  being  the  Contessa, 
fifty  francs,  and  Madame  de  Maury,  five. 

"Allow  me,  Marquis,"  said  the  Abbe,  "to  steal  from  you; 
bless  you  twofold,  monjtts!"  (taking  the  napoleon  Alain  ex- 
tended to  him)  "  first  for  your  charity,  secondly,  for  the  effect 
of  its  example  upon  the  heart  of  your  cousin.  Raoul  de  Van- 
demar,  stand  and  deliver.  Bah  !  what  !  only  ten  francs." 

Raoul  made  a  sign  to  the  Abbe,  unperceived  by  the  rest,  as 
he  answered  :  "  Abbe,  I  should  excel  your  expectations  of  my 
career  if  I  always  continue  worth  half  as  much  as  my  cousin." 

Alain  felt  to  the  bottom  of  his  heart  the  delicate  tact  of  his 
richer  kinsman  in  giving  less  than  himself,  and  the  Abbe  re- 
plied :  "  Niggard,  you  are  pardoned.  Humility  is  a  more  dif- 
ficult virtue  to  produce  than  charity,  and  in  your  case  an  in- 
stance of  it  is  so  rare  that  it  merits  encouragement." 

The  "  tea  equipage "  was  now  served  in  what  at  Paris  is 
called  the  English  fashion  ;  the  Contessa  presided  over  it,  the 
guests  gathered  round  the  table,  and  the  evening  passed  away 
in  the  innocent  gayety  of  a  domestic  circle.  The  talk,  if  not 
especially  intellectual,  was  at  least  not  fashionable  ;  books  were 
not  discussed,  neither  were  scandals  ;  yet  somehow  or  other,  it 
was  cheery  and  animated,  like  that  of  a  happy  family  in  a  coun- 
try house.  Alain  thought  still  the  better  of  Raoul  that,  Parisian 


IJ2  THE    PARISIANS.          X 

though  he  was,  he  could  appreciate  the  charm  of  an  evening  so 
innocently  spent. 

On  taking  leave,  the  Contessa  gave  Alain  a  general  invita- 
tion to  drop  in  whenever  he  was  not  better  engaged. 

"I  except  only  the  opera  nights,"  said  she.  "My  husband 
has  gone  to  Milan  on  his  affairs,  and  during  his  absence  I  do 
not  go  to  parties ;  the  opera  I  cannot  resist." 

Raoul  set  Alain  down  at  his  lodgings.  "Au  revoir;  to-mor- 
row at  one  o'clock  expect  Enguerrand  and  myself." 


CHAPTER  VII. 

RAOUL  and  Enguerrand  called  on  Alain  at  the  hour  fixed. 

"In  the  first  place,"  said  Raoul,  ''I  must  beg  you  to  accept 
my  mother's  regrets  that  she  cannot  receive  you  to-day.  She 
and  the  Contessa  belong  to  a  society  of  ladies  formed  for  visit- 
ing the  poor,  and  this  is  their  day  ;  but  to-morrow  you  must 
dine  with  us  en  famille.  Now  to  business.  Allow  me  to  light 
my  cigar  while  you  confide  the  whole  state  of  affairs  to  Enguer- 
rand :  whatever  he  counsels,  I  am  sure  to  approve." 

Alain,  as  briefly  as  he  could,  stated  his  circumstances,  his 
mortgages,  and  the  hopes  which  his  «?w//had  encouraged  him 
to  place  in  the  friendly  disposition  of  M.  Louvier.  When  he 
had  concluded,  Enguerrand  mused  for  a  few  moments  before 
replying.  At  last  he  said,  "  Will  you  trust  me  to  call  on  Louvier 
on  your  behalf  ?  I  shall  but  inquire  if  he  is  inclined  to  take 
on  himself  the  other  mortgages  ;  and  if  so,  on  what  terms. 
Our  relationship  gives  me  the  excuse  for  my  interference;  and 
to  say  truth,  I  have  had  much  familiar  intercourse  with  the 
man.  I  too  am  a  speculator,  and  have  often  profited  by  Lou- 
vier's  advice.  You  may  ask  what  can  be  his  object  in  serving 
me ;  he  can  gain  nothing  by  it.  To  this  I  answer,  the  key  to 
his  good  offices  is  in  his  character.  Audacious  though  he  be  as 
a  speculator,  he  is  wonderfully  prudent  as  a  politician.  This 
belle  France  of  ours  is  like  a  stage  tumbler ;  one  can  never  be 
sure  whether  it  will  stand  on  its  head  or  its  feet.  Louvier  very 
wisely  wishes  to  feel  himself  safe  whatever  party  comes  upper- 
most. He  has  no  faith  in  the  duration  of  the  Empire ;  and  as 
at  all  events  the  Empire  will  not  confiscate  his  millions,  he 
takes  no  trouble  in  conciliating  Imperialists.  But  on  the  prin- 
ciple which  induces  certain  savages  to  worship  the  devil  and 
neglect  the  bon  Dieu,  because  the  devil  is  spiteful  and  the  bon 
Dicu  is  too  beneficent  to  injure  them,  Louvier,  at  heart  de- 


THE    PARISIANS.  133 

testing  as  well  as  dreading  a  republic,  lays  himself  out  to  secure 
friends  with  the  Republicans  of  all  classes,  and  pretends  to  es- 
pouse their  cause.  Next  to  them,  he  is  very  conciliatory  to  the 
Orleanists.  Lastly,  though  he  thinks  the  Legitimists  have  no 
chance,  he  desires  to  keep  well  with  the  nobles  of  that  party, 
because  they  exercise  a  considerable  influence  over  that  sphere 
of  opinion  which  belongs  to  fashion  ;  for  fashion  is  never 
powerless  in  Paris.  Raoul  and  myself  are  no  mean  authoities 
in  salons  and  clubs  ;  and  a  good  word  from  us  is  worth  having. 

"  Besides,  Louvier  himself  in  his  youth  set  up  for  a  dandy  ; 
and  that  deposed  ruler  of  dandies,  our  unfortunate  kinsman, 
Victor  de  Mauleon,  shed  some  of  his  own  radiance  on  the 
money-lender's  son.  But  when  Victor's  star  was  eclipsed,  Lou- 
vier ceased  to  gleam.  The  dandies  cut  him.  In  his  heart  he 
exults  that  the  dandies  now  throng  to  his  soirees,  Bref,  the 
millionnaire  is  especially  civil  to  me — the  more  so  as  I  know  in- 
timately two  or  three  eminent  journalists ;  and  Louvier  takes 
pains  to  plant  garrisons  in  the  press.  I  trust  Thave  explained 
the  grounds  on  which  I  may  be  a  better  diplomatist  to  employ 
than  your  avoue /  and  with  your  leave  I  will  go  to  Louvier 
at  once." 

"Let  him  go,"  said  Raoul.  "Enguerrand  never  fails  in  any- 
thing he  undertakes,  especially,"  he  added,  with  a  smile  half 
sad,  half  tender,  "when  one  wishes  to  replenish  one's  purse." 

"  I  too  gratefully  grant  such  an  ambassador  all  powers  to 
treat,"  said  Alain.  "I  am  only  ashamed  to  consign  to  him  a 
post  so  much  beneath  his  genius,"  and  his  "birth"  he  was 
about  to  add,  but  wisely  checked  himself.  Enguerrand  said, 
shrugging  his  shoulders  :  "You  can't  do  me  a  greater  kindness 
than  by  setting  my  wits  at  work.  I  fall  a  martyr  to  ennui  when 
I  am  not  in  action,"  he  said,  and  was  gone. 

"It  makes  me  very  melancholy  at  times,"  said  Raoul,  fling- 
ing away  the  end  of  his  cigar,  "to  think  that  a  man  so  clever 
and  so  energetic  as  Enguerrand  should  be  as  much  excluded 
from  the  service  of  his  country  as  if  he  were  an  Iroquois  In- 
dian. He  would  have  made  a  great  diplomatist." 

"Alas!"  replied  Alain,  with  a  sigh,  "I  begin  to  doubt 
whether  we  Legitimists  are  justified  in  maintaining  a  useless 
loyalty  to  a  sovereign  who  renders  us  morally  exiles  in  the 
land  of  our  birth." 

"  I  have  no  doubt  on  the  subject,"  said  Raoul.  "  We  are 
not  justified  on  the  score  of  policy,  but  we  have  no  option  at 
present  on  the  score  of  honor.  We  should  gain  so  much  for 
ourselves  if  we  adopted  the  State  livery  and  took  the  State 


134  THE    PARISIANS. 

wages  that  no  man  would  esteem  us  as  patriots;  we  should 
only  be  despised  as  apostates.  So  long  as  Henry  V.  lives,  and 
does  not  resign  his  claim,  we  cannot  be  active  citizens  ;  we 
must  be  mournful  lookers-on.  But  what  matters  it  ?  We 
nobles  of  the  old  race  are  becoming  rapidly  extinct.  Under 
any  form  of  government  likely  to  be  established  in  France  we 
are  equally  doomed.  The  French  people,  aiming  at  an  impos- 
sible equality,  will  never  again  tolerate  a  race  of  gentilshommes. 
They  cannot  prevent,  without  destroying  commerce  and  capital 
altogether,  a  quick  succession  of  men  of  the  day,  who  form 
nominal  aristocracies  much  more  opposed  to  equality  than  any 
hereditary  class  of  nobles.  But  they  refuse  these  fleeting  sub- 
stitutes of  born  patricians  all  permanent  stake  in  the  country, 
since  whatever  estate  they  buy  must  be  subdivided  at  their 
death.  My  poor  Alain,  you  are  making  it  the  one  ambition  of 
your  life  to  preserve  to  your  posterity  the  home  and  lands  of 
your  forefathers.  How  is  that  possible,  even  supposing  you 
could  redeem  the  mortgages?  You  marry  someday  ;  you  have 
children,  and  Rochebriant  must  then  be  sold  to  pay  for  their 
separate  portions.  How  this  condition  of  things,  while  render- 
ing us  so  ineffective  to  perform  the  normal  functions  of  a 
noblesse  in  public  life,  affects  us  in  private  life,  may  be  easily 
conceived. 

"Condemned  to  a  career  of  pleasure  and  frivolity,  we  can 
scarcely  escape  from  the  contagion  of  extravagant  luxury  which 
forrrfs  the  vice  of  the  time.  With  grand  names  to  keep  up, 
and  small  fortunes  whereon  to  keep  them,  we  readily  incur 
embarrassment  and  debt.  Then  neediness  conquers  pride. 
We  cannot  be  great  merchants,  but  we  can  be  small  gamblers 
on  the  Bourse,  or,  thanks  to  the  Credit  Mobilier,  imitate  a  cabi- 
net minister,  and  keep  a  shop  under  another  name.  Perhaps 
you  have  heard  that  Enguerrand  and  I  keep  a  shop.  Pray, 
buy  your  gloves  there.  Strange  fate  for  men  whose  ancestors 
fought  in  the  first  Crusade — mat's  que  voulez  vous?" 

"I  was  told  of  the  shop,"  said  Alain,  "but  the  moment  I 
knew  you  I  disbelieved  the  story." 

"  Quite  true.  Shall  I  confide  to  you  why  we  resorted  to  that 
means  of  finding  ourselves  in  pocket-money  ?  My  father  gives 
us  rooms  in  his  hotel ;  the  use  of  his  table,  which  we  do  not. 
much  profit  by  ;  and  an  allowance,  on  which  we  could  not  live 
as  young  men  of  our  class  live  at  Paris.  Enguerrand  had  his 
means  of  spending  pocket-money,  I  mine  ;  but  it  came  to  the 
same  thing — the  pockets  were  emptied.  We  incurred  debts. 
Two  years  ago  my  father  straitened  himself  to  pay  them, 


THE  PARISIANS.  135 

saying,  '  The  next  time  you  come  to  me  with  debts,  however 
small,  you  must  pay  them  yourselves,  or  you  must  marry,  and 
leave  it  to  me  to  find  you  wives.'  This  threat  appalled  us  both. 
A  month  afterwards,  Enguerrand  made  a  lucky  hit  at  the 
Bourse,  and  proposed  to  invest  the  proceeds  in  a  shop.  I  re- 
sisted as  long  as  I  could,  but  Enguerrand  triumphed  over  me, 
as  he  always  does.  He  found  an  excellent  deputy  in  a  bonne 
who  had  nursed  us  in  childhood,  and  married  a  journeyman 
perfumer  who  understands  the  business.  It  answers  well ;  we 
are  not  in  debt,  and  we  have  preserved  our  freedom." 

After  these  confessions  Raoul  went  away,  and  Alain  fell 
into  a  mournful  revery,  from  which  he  was  roused  by  a  loud 
ring  at  his  bell.  He  opened  the  door,  and  beheld  M.  Louvier. 
The  burley  financier  was  much  out  of  breath  after  making  so 
steep  an  ascent.  It  was  in  gasps  that  he  muttered,  "  J5 on/our  ; 
excuse  me  if  I  derange  you."  Then  entering  and  seating  him- 
self on  a  chair,  he  took  some  minutes  to  recover  speech,  roll- 
ing his  eyes  staringly  round  the  meagre,  unluxurious  room,  and 
then  concentrating  their  gaze  upon  its  occupier. 

"  Peste,  my  dear  Marquis  !  "  he  said  at  last,  "  I  hope  the 
next  time  I  visit  you  the  ascent  may  be  less  arduous.  One 
would  think  you  were  in  training  to  ascend  the  Himalaya." 

The  haughty  noble  writhed  under  this  jest,  and  the  spirit 
inborn  in  his  order  spoke  in  his  answer. 

"  I  am  accustomed  to  dwell  on  heights,  M.  Louvier ;  the 
castle  of  Rochebriant  is  not  on  a  level  with  the  town." 

An  angry  gleam  shot  from  the  eyes  of  the  millionnaire,  but 
there  was  no  other  sign  of  displeasure  in  his  answer. 

"  Bien  dit,  won  cher ;  how  you  remind  me  of  your  father  ! 
Now,  give  me  leave  to  speak  on  affairs.  I  have  seen  your 
cousin  Enguerrand  de  Vandemar.  Homme  de  moyens  though 
foli gar  f on.  He  proposed  that  you  should  call  on  me.  I  said 
'no  '  to  the  cher  petit  Enguerrand — a  visit  from  me  was  due  to 
you.  To  cut  matters  short,  M.  Gandrin  has  allowed  me  to 
look  into  your  papers.  I  was  disposed  to  serve  you  from  the 
first  ;  I  am  still  more  disposed  to  serve  you  now.  I  undertake 
to  pay  off  all  your  other  mortgages,  and  become  sole  mort- 
gagee, and  on  terms  that  I  have  jotted  down  on  this  paper, 
and  which  I  hope  will  content  you." 

He  placed  a  paper  in  Alain's  hand,  and  took  out  a  box, 
from  which  he  extracted  a  jujube,  placed  it  in  his  mouth, 
folded  his  hands,  and  reclined  back  in  his  chair,  with  his  eyes 
half  closed,  as  if  exhausted  alike  by  his  ascent  and  his  gen- 
erosity. 


1^  THE   PARISIANS. 

In  effect,  the  terms  were  unexpectedly  liberal.  The  reduced 
interest  on  the  mortgages  would  leave  the  Marquis  an  income 
of  ;£iooo  a  year  instead  of  ^400.  Louvier  proposed  to  take 
on  himself  the  legal  cost  of  transfer,  and  to  pay  to  the  Mar- 
quis 25,000  francs,  on  the  completion  of  the  deed,  as  a  bonus. 
The  mortgage  did  not  exempt  the  building-land,  as  Hebert  de- 
sired. In  all  else  it  was  singularly  advantageous,  and  Alain 
could  but  feel  a  thrill  of  grateful  delight  at  an  offer  by  which 
his  stinted  income  was  raised  to  comparative  affluence. 

"  Well,  Marquis,"  said  Louvier,  "  what  does  the  caslle  say  to 
the  town  ?  " 

"M.  Louvier,"  answered  Alain,  extending  his  hand  with 
cordial  eagerness,  "accept  my  sincere  apologies  for  the  indis- 
cretion of  my  metaphor.  Poverty  is  proverbially  sensitive  to 
jests  on  it.  I  owe  it  to  you  if  I  cannot  hereafter  make  that 
excuse  for  any  words  of  mine  that  may  displease  you.  The 
terms  you  propose  are  most  liberal,  and  I  close  with  them  at 
once." 

"Bon"  said  Louvier,  shaking  vehemently  the  hand  offered 
to  him  ;  "I  will  take  the  paper  to  Gandrin,  and  instruct  him 
accordingly.  And  now,  may  I  attach  a  condition  to  the  agree- 
ment which  is  not  put  down  on  paper?  It  may  have  surprised 
you  perhaps  that  I  should  propose  a  gratuity  of  25,000  francs 
on  completion  of  the  contract.  It  is  a  droll  thing  to  do,  and 
not  in  the  ordinary  way  of  business,  therefore  I  must  explain. 
Marquis,  pardon  the  liberty  I  take,  but  you  have  inspired  me 
with  an  interest  in  your  future.  With  your  birth,  connections, 
and  figure,  you  should  push  your  way  in  the  world  far  and  fast. 
But  you  can't  do  so  in  a  province.  You  must  find  your  open- 
ing at  Paris.  I  wish  you  to  spend  a  year  in  the  capital,  and 
live,  not  extravagantly,  like  a  nouveau  riche,  but  in  a  way  not 
unsuited  to  your  rank,  and  permitting  you  all  the  social  advan- 
tages that  belong  to  it.  These  25,000  francs,  in  addition  to 
your  improved  income,  will  enable  you  to  gratify  my  wish  in 
this  respect.  Spend  the  money  in  Paris  ;  you  will  want  every 
sou  of  it  in  the  course  of  the  year.  It  will  be  money  well 
spent.  Take  my  advice,  cher  Marquis.  Au  plaisir." 

The  financier  bowed  himself  out.  The  young  Marquis  for- 
got all  the  mournful  reflections  with  which  Raoul's  conversa- 
tion had  inspired  him.  He  gave  a  new  touch  to  his  toilette, 
and  sallied  forth  with  the  air  of  a  man  on  whose  morning  of 
life  a  sun  heretofore  clouded  has  burst  forth  and  bathed  the 
landscape  in  its  light. 


THE    PARISIANS.  137 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

SINCE  the  evening  spent  at  the  Savarins',  Graham  had  seen 
no  more  of  Isaura.  He  had  avoided  all  chance  of  seeing  her ; 
in  fact,  the  jealousy  with  which  he  had  viewed  her  manner  to- 
wards Kameau,  and  the  angry  amaze  with  which  he  had  heard 
her  proclajm  her  friendship  for  Madame  deGrantmesnil,  served 
to  strengthen  the  grave  and  secret  reasons  which  made  him  de- 
sire to  keep  his  heart  yet  free  and  his  hand  yet  unpledged. 
But,  alas,  the  heart  was  enslaved  already  !  It  was  under  the 
most  fatal  of  all  spells — first  love  conceived  at  first  sight.  He 
was  wretched  ;  and  in  his  wretchedness  his  resolves  became 
involuntarily  weakened.  He  found  himself  making  excuses 
for  the  beloved.  What  cause  had  he,  after  all,  for  that  jealousy 
of  the  young  poet  which  had  so  offended  him  ?  And  if,  in  her 
youth  and  inexperience,  Isaura  had  made  her  dearest  friend  of 
a  great  writer  by  whose  genius  she  might  be  dazzled,  and  of 
whose  opinions  she  might  scarcely  be  aware,  was  it  a  crime  that 
necessitated  her  eternal  banishment  from  the  reverence  which 
belongs  to  all  manly  love  ?  Certainly  he  found  no  satisfactory 
answers  to  such  self-questionings.  And  then  those  grave  rea- 
sons known  _only  to  himself,  and  never  to  be  confided  to 
another,  why  he  should  yet  reserve  his  hand  unpledged,  were 
not  so  imperative  as  to  admit  of  no  compromise.  They  might 
entail  a  sacrifice,  and  not  a  small  one  to  a  man  of  Graham's 
views  and  ambition.  But  what  is  love  if  it  can  think  any  sacri- 
fice, short  of  duty  and  honor,  too  great  to  offer  up  unknown, 
uncomprehended,  to  the  one  beloved  ?  Still  while  thus  softened 
in  his  feelings  towards  Isaura,  he  became,  perhaps  in  conse- 
quence of  such  softening,  more  and  more  restlessly  impatient 
to  fulfil  the  object  for  which  he  had  come  to  Paris,  the  great 
step  towards  which  was  the  discovery  of  the  undiscoverable 
Louise  Duval. 

He  had  written  more  than  once  to  M.  Renard  since  the 
interview  with  that  functionary  already  recorded,  demanding 
whether  Renard  had  not  made  some  progress  in  the  research 
on  which  he  was  employed,  and  had  received  short,  unsatis- 
factory replies  preaching  patience  and  implying  hope. 

The  plain  truth,  however,  was,  that  M.  Renard  had  taken  no 
further  pains  in  the  matter.  He  considered  it  utter  waste  of 
time  and  thought  to  attempt  a  discovery  to  which  the  traces 
were  so  faint  and  so  obsolete.  If  the  discovery  were  effected, 
it  must  be  by  one  of  those  chances  which  occur  without  labor 


138  THE    PARISIANS. 

or  forethought  of  our  own.  He  trusted  only  to  such  a  chance 
in  continuing  the  charge  he  had  undertaken.  But  during  the 
last  day  or  two  Graham  had  become  yet  more  impatient  than 
before,  and  peremptorily  requested  another  visit  from  this  dil- 
atory confidant. 

In  that  visit,  finding  himself  pressed  hard,  and  though  natu- 
rally willing,  if  possible,  to  retain  a  client  unusually  generous, 
yet  being,  on  the  whole,  an  honest  member  of  his  profession, 
and  feeling  it  to  be  somewhat  unfair  to  accept  large  remuneration 
for  doing  nothing,  M.  Renard  said  frankly  :  "  Monsieur,  this 
affair  is  beyond  me  ;  the  keenest  agent  of  our  police  could 
make  nothing  of  it.  Unless  you  can  tell  me  more  than  you 
have  done,  I  am  utterly  without  a  clue.  I  resign,  therefore, 
the  task  with  which  you  honored  me,  willing  to  resume  it  again 
if  you  can  give  me  information  that  could  render  me  of  use." 

"  What  sort  of  information  ?  " 

"  At  least  the  names  of  some  of  the  lady's  relations  who  may 
yet  be  living." 

"But  it  strikes  me  that,  if  I  could  get  at  that  piece  of  knowl- 
edge, I  should  not  require  the  services  of  the  police.  The  rela- 
tions would  tell  me  what  had  become  of  Louise  Duval  quite  as 
readily  as  they  would  tell  a  police  agent." 

"  Quite  true,  Monsieur.  It  would  really  be  picking  your 
pockets  if  I  did  not  at  once  retire  from  your  service.  Nay, 
Monsieur,  pardon  me,  no  further  payments  ;  I  have  already 
accepted  too  much.  Your  most  obedient  servant." 

Graham,  left  alone,  fell  into  a  very  gloomy  revery.  He 
could  not  but  be  sensible  of  the  difficulties  in  the  way  of  the 
object  which  had  brought  him  to  Paris,  with  somewhat  sanguine 
expectations  of  success  founded  on  a  belief  in  the  omniscience 
of  the  Parisian  police,  which  is  only  to  be  justified  when  they 
have  to  deal  with  a  murderess  or  a  political  incendiary.  But 
the  name  of  Louise  Duval  is  about  as  common  in  France  as 
that  of  Mary  Smith  in  England  ;  and  the  English  reader  may 
judge  what  would  be  the  likely  result  of  inquiring  through  the 
ablest  of  our  detectives  after  some  Mary  Smith  of  whom  you 
could  give  little  more  information  than  that  she  was  the  daughter 
of  a  drawing  master  who  had  died  twenty  years  ago  ;  that  it 
was  about  fifteen  years  since  anything  had  been  heard  of  her ; 
that  you  could  not  say  if,  through  marriage  or  for  other  causes, 
she  had  changed  her  name  or  not,  and  you  had  reasons  for 
declining  resort  to  public  advertisements.  In  the  course  of 
inquiry  so  instituted,  the  probability  would  be  that  you  might 
hear  of  a  great  many  Mary  Smiths.,  in  the  pursuit  of  whom  your 


THE    PARISIANS.  IJ9 

employe  would  lose  all  sight  and  scent  of  the  one  Mary  Smith 
for  whom  the  chase  was  instituted. 

In  the  midst  of  Graham's  despairing  reflections  his  laquais 
announced  M.  Frederic  Lemercier.  • 

"Cher  Grarm-Varn.  A  thousand  pardons  if  I  disturb  you 
at  this  late  hour  of  the  evening  ;  but  you  remember  the  request 
you  made  me  when  you  first  arrived  in  Paris  this  season?" 

"  Of  course  I  do  ;  in  case  you  should  ever  chance  in  your 
wide  round  of  acquaintance  to  fall  in  with  a  Madame  or 
Mademoiselle  Duval  of  about  the  age  of  forty,  or  a  year  or  so 
less,  to  let  me  know  :  and  you  did  fall  in  with  two  ladies  of 
that  name,  but  they  were  not  the  right  one — not  the  person 
whom  my  friend  begged  me  to  discover' — both  much  too 
young." 

"  Eh  bien,  mon  cher*  If  you  will  come  with  me  to  the  bal 
champetre  in  the  Champs  Elysees  to-night,  I  can  show  you  a 
third  Madame  Duval ;  her  Christian  name  is  Louise,  too,  of 
the  age  you  mention ;  though  she  does  her  best  to  look 
younger,  and  is  still  very  handsome.  You  said  your  Duval  was 
handsome.  It  was  only  last  evening  that  I  met  this  lady  at  a 
wir-Je  given  by  Mademoiselle  Julie  Caumartin,  coryphee  dis- 
•tingufay'vn.  love  with  young  Rameau." 

"In  love  with  young  Rameau?  I  am  very  glad  to  hear  it. 
He  returns  the  love  ?  " 

"  I  suppose  so.  He  seems  very  proud  of  it.  But  apropos 
of  Madame  Duval,  she  has  been  long  absent  from  Paris ;  just 
returned,  and  looking  out  for  conquests.  She  says  she  has  a 
great  penchant  for  the  English  ;  promises  me  to  be  at  this 
ball — come." 

"  Hearty  thanks,  my  dear  Lemercier.     I  am  at  your  service." 


CHAPTER  IX. 

THE  bal  champetre  was  gay  and  brilliant,  as  such  festal 
scenes  are  at  Paris.  A  lovely  night  in  the  midst  of  May — 
lamps  below  and  stars  above  :  the  society  mixed,  of  course. 
Evidently,  when  Graham  has  singled  out  Frederic  Lemercier 
from  all  his  acquaintances  at  Paris,  to  conjoin  with  the  official 
aid  of  M.  Renard  in  search  of  the  mysterious  lady,  he  had 
conjectured  the  probability  that  she  might  be  found  in  the 
Bohemian  world  so  familiar  to  Frederic  ;  if  not  as  an  in- 
habitant, at  least  as  an  explorer.  Bohemia  was  largely  repre- 
sented at  the  $al  champetre^  but  not  without  a  fair  sprinkling 


140  THE    PARISIANS. 

of  what  we  call  the  "  respectable  classes,"  especially  English 
and  Americans,  who  brought  their  wives  there  to  take  care  of 
them.  Frenchmen,  not  needing  such  care,  prudently  left  their 
wives  at  home.  Among  the  Frenchmen  of  station  were  the 
Comte  de  Passy  and  the  Vicomte  de  Breze". 

On  first  entering  the  gardens,  Graham's  eye  was  attracted 
and  dazzled  by  a  brilliant  form.  It  was  standing  under  a  fes- 
toon of  flowers  extended  from  tree  to  tree,  and  a  gas  jet 
opposite  shone  full  upon  the  face — the  face  of  a  girl  in  all  the 
freshness  of  youth.  If  the  freshness  owed  anything  to  art,  the 
art  was  so  well  disguished  that  it  seemed  nature.  The  beauty 
of  the  countenance  was  Hebe-like,  joyous,  and  radiant,  and 
yet  one  could  not  look  at  the  girl  without  a  sentiment  of  deep 
mournfulness.  She  was  surrounded  by  a  group  of  young  men, 
and  the  ring  of  her  laugh  jarred  upon  Graham's  ear.  He 
pressed  Frederic's  arm,  and  directing  his  attention  to  the  girl, 
asked  who  she  was. 

"Who?  Don't  you  know?  That  is  Julie  Caumartin.  A 
little  while  ago  her  equipage  was  the  most  admired  in  the  Bois, 
and  great  ladies  condescended  to  copy  her  dress  or  her  coiffure. 
But  she  has  lost  her  splendor,  and  dismissed  the  rich  admirer 
who  supplied  the  fuel  for  its  blaze,  since  she  fell  in  love  with 
Gustave  Rameau.  Doubtless  she  is  expecting  him  to-night. 
You  ought. to  know  her  ;  shall  I  present  you  ?" 

"No,"  answered  Graham,  with  a  compassionate  expression 
in  his  manly  face.  "So  young;  seemingly  so  gay.  How  I 
pity  her  !  " 

"What!  for  throwing  herself  away  on  Rameau?  True. 
There  is  a  great  deal  of  good  in  that  girl's  nature,  if  she  had  been 
properly  trained.  Rameau  wrote  a  pretty  poem  on  her  which 
turned  her  head  and  won  her  heart,  in  which  she  is  styled  the 
'  Ondine  of  Paris/ — a  nymph-like  type  of  Paris  itself." 

"Vanishing  type,  like  her  namesake;  born  of  the  spray, 
and  vanishing  soon  into  the  deep,"  said  Graham.  "  Pray  go 
and  look  for  the  Duval  ;  you  will  find  me  seated  yonder." 

Graham  passed  into  a  retired  alley,  and  threw  himself  on  a  soli- 
tary bench,  while  Lemercier  went  in  search  of  Madame  Duval. 
In  a  few  minutes  the  Frenchman  reappeared.  By  his  side  was  a 
lady  well  dressed,  and  as  she  passed  under  the  lamps  Graham 
perceived  that,  though  of  a  certain  age,  she  was  undeniably 
handsome.  His  heart  beat  more  quickly.  Surely  this  was  the 
Louise  Duval  he  sought. 

He  rose  from  his  seat,  and  was  presented  in  due  form  to  the 
Jady,  with  whom  Frederic  then  discreetly  left  him. 


THE  PARISIANS.  141 

"Monsieur  Lemercier  tells  me  that  you  think  that  we  were 
once  acquainted  with  each  other." 

"  Nay,  Madame  ;  I  should  not  fail  to  recognise  you  were  that 
the  case.  A  friend  of  mine  had  the  honor  of  knowing  a  lady 
of  your  name  ;  and  should  I  be  fortunate  enough  to  meet  that 
lady,  I  am  charged  with  a  commission  that  may  not  be  unwel- 
come to  her.  M.  Lemercier  tells  me  your  nom  de  bapteme  is 
Louise." 

"  Louise  Corinne,  Monsieur." 

"And  I  presume  that  Duval  is  the  name  you  take  from  your 
parents  ?  " 

"  No  ;  my  father's  name  was  Bernard.  I  married,  when  I 
was  a  mere  child,  M.  Duval,  in  the  wine  trade  at  Bordeaux." 

"  Ah,  indeed  !  "  said  Graham,  much  disappointed,  but  look- 
ing at  her  with  a  keen,  searching  eye,  which  she  met  with  a 
decided  frankness.  Evidently,  in  his  judgment,  she  was  speak- 
ing the  truth. 

"  You  know  English,  I  think,  Madame,"  he  resumed,  address- 
ing her  in  that  language. 

"  A  leetle — speak  un  pcu." 

"  Only  a  little  ?  " 

Madame  Duval  looked  puzzled,  and  replied  in  French  with 
a  laugh.  "  Is  it  that  you  were  told  that  I  spoke  English  by 
your  countryman,  Milord  Sare  Boulby  ?  Petit  sc/lerat,  I  hope 
he  is  well.  He  sends  you  a  commission  for  me — so  he  ought : 
he  behaved  to  me  like  a  monster." 

"  Alas,  I  know  nothing  of  Milord  Sir  Boulby  !  Were  you 
never  in  England  yourself?  " 

"  Never,"  with  a  coquettish  side-glance  ;  "  I  should  like  so 
much  to  go.  I  have  a  foible  for  the  English  in  spite  of  that 
vilain  petit  Boulby.  Who  is  it  gave  you  the  commission  for 
me  ?  Ha  !  I  guess — le  Capitaine  Nelton." 

'"  No.  What  year,  Madame,  if  not  impertinent,  were  you  at 
Aix-la-Chapelle  ?" 

"  You  mean  Baden  ?  I  was  there  seven  years  ago  when  I 
met  le  Capitaine  Nelton — bel  homme  aux  cheveux  rouges" 

"  But  you  have  been  at  Aix  ? " 

"  Never." 

"  I  have,  then,  been  mistaken,  Madame,  and  have  only  to 
offer  my  most  humble  apologies." 

"  But  perhaps  you  will  favor  me  with  a  visit,  and  we  may  on 
further  conversation  find  that  you  are  not  mistaken.  1  can't 
stay  now,  for  I  am  engaged  to  dance  with  the  Belgian  of 
whom,  no  doubt,  M.  Lemercier  has  told  you." 


142  THE    PARISIANS. 

"  No,  Madame,  he  has  not." 

"  Well,  then,  he  will  tell  you.  The  Belgian  is  very  jealous. 
But  I  am  always  at  home  between  three  and  four  ;  this  is  my 
card." 

Graham  eagerly  took  the  card,  and  exclaimed,  "  Is  this  your 
own  handwriting,  Madame  ?  " 

"  Yes,  indeed." 

"  Tres  belle  ecriture"  said  Graham,  and  receded  with  a  cere- 
monious bow.  "  Anything  so  unlike  her  handwriting.  Another 
disappointment,"  muttered  the  Englishman  as  the  lady  went 
back  to  the  ball. 

A  few  minutes  later  Graham  joined  Lemercier,  who  was  talk- 
ing with  De  Passy  and  De  Breze. 

"  Well,"  said  Lemercier,  when  his  eye  rested  on  Graham,  "  I 
hit  the  right  nail  on  the  head  this  time,  eh  ?  " 

Graham  shook  his  head. 

"  What  !     Is  she  not  the  right  Louise  Duval  ?  " 

"  Certainly  not." 

The  Count  de  Passy  overheard  the  name,  and  turned. 
"  Louise  Duval,"  he  said  ;  "  does  Monsieur  Vane  know  a  Louise 
Duval  ?  " 

"  No,  but  a  friend  asked  me  to  inquire  after  a  lady  of  that 
name  whom  he  had  met  many  years  ago  at  Paris."  The 
Count  mused  a  moment,  and  said,  "  Is  it  possible  that  your 
friend  knew  the  family  De  Mauleon  ?" 

"  I  really  can  t  say.     What  then  ?  " 

"  The  old  Vicomte  de  Mauleon  was  one  of  my  most  inti- 
mate associates.  In  fact,  our  houses  are  connected.  And  he 
was  extremely  grieved,  poor  man,  when  his  daughter  Louise 
married  her  drawing-master,  Auguste  Duval." 

"  Her  drawing-master,  Auguste  Duval  ?  Pray  say  on.  I 
think  the  Louise  Duval  my  friend  knew  must  have  been  her 
daughter.  She  was  the  only  child  of  a  drawing-master  or 
artist  named  Auguste  Duval,  and  probably  enough  her  Chris- 
tian name  would  have  been  derived  from  her  mother.  A  Mad- 
emoiselle de  Mauleon,  then,  married  M.  Auguste  Duval?" 

"  Yes  ;  the  old  Vicomte  had  espoused  en  premieres  voces 
Mademoiselle  Camille  de  Chavigny,  a  lady  of  birth  equal  to 
his  own  ;  had  by  her  one*  daughter,  Louise.  I  recollect  her 
well  :  a  plain  girl,  with  a  high  nose  and  a  sour  expression. 
She  was  just  of  age  when  the  first  Vicomtesse  died,  and  by  the 
marriage  settlement  she  succeeded  at  once  to  her  mother's  for- 
tune, which  was  not  large.  The  Vicomte  was,  however,  so 
poor,  that  the  loss  of  that  income  was  no  trifle  to  him.  Though 


I-HE  PAkisiANS,  143 

much  past  fifty,  he  was  still  very  handsome.  Men  of  that  gen- 
eration did  not  age  soon,  Monsieur,"  said  the  Count,  expand- 
ing his  fine  chest  and  laughing  exultingly. 

"  He  married,  en  secondes  noces,  a  lady  of  still  higher  birth 
than  the  first,  and  with  a  much  larger  dot.  Louise  was  indignant 
at  this,  hated  her  stepmother  ;  and  when  a  son  was  born  by 
the  second  marriage  she  left  the  paternal  roof,  went  to  reside 
with  an  old  female  relative  near  the  Luxembourg,  and  there 
married  this  drawing-master.  Her  father  and  the  family  did 
all  they  could  to  prevent  it ;  but  in  these  democratic  days,  a 
woman  who  has  attained  her  majority  can,  if  she  persist  in  her 
determination,  marry  to  please  herself  and  disgrace  her  ances- 
tors. After  that  mesalliance  her  father  never  would  see  her 
again.  I  tried  in  vain  to  soften  him.  All  his  parental  affec- 
tions settled  on  his  handsome  Victor.  Ah,  you  are  too  young 
to  have  known  Victor  de  Mauleon  during  his  short  reign  at 
Paris — as  roi  des  viveurs." 

"  Yes,  he  was  before  my  time  ;  but  I  have  heard  of  him  as 
a  young  man  of  great  fashion  :  said  to  be  very  clever,  a  duellist, 
and  a  sort  of  Don  Juan." 

"  Exactly." 

"  And  then  I  remember  vaguely  to  have  heard  that  he  com- 
mitted, or  was  said  to  have  committed,  some  villanous  action 
connected  with  a  great  lady's  jewels,  and  to  have  left  Paris  in 
consequence." 

"  Ah,  yes — a  sad  scrape.  At  that  time  there  was  a  political 
crisis  ;  we  were  under  a  Republic  ;  anything  against  a  noble 
was  believed.  But  I  am  sure  Victor  de  Mauleon  was  not  the 
man  to  commit  a  larceny.  However,  it  is  quite  true  that  he 
left  Paris,  and  I  don't  know  what  has  become  of  him  since." 
Here  he  touched  De  Breze,  who,  though  still  near,  had  not 
been  listening  to  this  conversation,  but  interchanging  jest  and 
laughter  with  Lemercier  on  the  motley  scene  of  the  dance. 

"  De  Breze,  have  you  ever  heard  what  became  of  poor  dear 
Victor  de  Mauleon?  You  knew  him." 

"Knew  him?  I  should  think  so.  Who  could  be  in  the 
great  world  and  not  know  le  beau  Victor  ?  No  ;  after  he  van- 
ished I  never  heard  more  of  him — doubtless  long  since  dead. 
A  good-hearted  fellow,  in  spite  of  all  his  sins." 

"  My  dear  M.  de  Breze,  did  you  know  his  half-sister  ? ' 
asked  <jraham  ;  "a  Madame  Duval?" 

"No,  I  never  heard  he  had  a  half-sister.  Halt  there:  I 
recollect  that  I  met  Victor  once,  in  the  garden  at  Versailles, 
walking  arm-in-arm  with  the  most  beautiful  girl  I  ever  saw  ; 


144  THE  PARISIANS. 

and  when  I  complimented  him  afterwards  at  the  Jockey  Club 
on  his  new  conquest,  he  replied  very  gravely  that  the  young 
lady  was  his  niece.  '  Niece !'  said  I;  'why,  there  can't  be 
more  than  five  or  six  years  between  you.'  '  About  that,  I  sup- 
pose,' said  he;  'my  half-sister,  her  mother,  was  more  than 
twenty  years  older  than  I  at  the  time  of  my  birth.'  I  doubted 
the  truth  of  his  story  at  the  time,  but  since  you  say  he  really 
had  a  sister,  my  doubt  wronged  him." 

"  Have  you  never  seen  that  same  young  lady  since  ?  " 

"  Never." 

"  How  many  years  ago  was  this  ?" 

"  Let  me  see — about  twenty  or  twenty-one  years  ago.  How 
time  flies ! " 

Graham  still  continued  to  question,  but  could  learn  no  far- 
ther particulars.  He  turned  to  quit  the  gardens  just  as  the 
band  was  striking  up  for  a  fresh  dance,  a  wild  German  waltz 
air,  and  mingled  with  that  German  music  his  ear  caught  the 
sprightly  sounds  of  the  French  laugh,  one  laugh  distinguished 
from  the  rest  by  a  more  genuine  ring  of  light-hearted  joy — the 
laugh  that  he  had,  heard  on  entering  the  gardens,  and  the 
sound  of  which  had  then  saddened  him.  Looking  towards  the 
quarter  from  which  it  came,  he  again  saw  the  "  Ondine  of 
Paris."  She  was  not  now  the  centre  of  a  group.  She  had  just 
found  Gustave  Rameau  ;  and  was  clinging  to  his  arm  with  a 
look  of  happiness  in  her  face,  frank  and  innocent  as  a  child's. 
And  so  they  passed  amid  the  dancers  down  a  solitary  lamp-lit 
alley,  till  lost  to  the  Englishman's  lingering  gaze. 


CHAPTER  X. 

THE  next  morning  Graham  sent  again  for  M.  Renard. 

"Well,"  he  cried,  when  that  dignitary  appeared  and  took  a 
sent  beside  him  ;  "chance  has  favored  me." 

"  I  always  counted  on  chance,  Monsieur.  Chance  has  more 
wit  in  its  little  finger  than  the  Paris  police  in  its  whole  body." 

"  I  have  ascertained  the  relations,  on  the  mother's  side,  of 
Louise  Duval,  and  the  only  question  is  how  to  get  at  them." 

Here  Graham  related  what  he  had  heard,  and  ended  by  say- 
ing :  "This  Victor  de  Mauleon  is  therefore  my  Louise  Duval's 
uncle.  He  was,  no  doubt,  taking  charge  of  her  in  the  year 
that  the  persons  interested  in  her  discovery  lost  sight  of  her  in 
Paris  ;  and  surely  he  must  know  what  became  of  her  afterwards." 

"  Very  probably  ;  and  chance  may  befriend  us  yet  in  the 


THE  PARISIANS.  145 

discovery  of  Victor  de  Mauleon.  You  seem  not  to  know  the 
paiticulars  of  that  story  about  the  jewels  which  brought  him 
into  some  connection  with  the  police,  and  resulted  in  his  dis- 
appearance from  Paris." 

"  No  ;  tell  me  the  particulars." 

"  Victor  de  Mauleon  was  heir  to  some  60,000  or  70,000  francs 
a  year,  chiefly  on  the  mother's  side  ;  for  his  father,  though  the 
representative  of  one  of  the  most  ancient  houses  in  Normandy, 
was  very  poor,  having  little  of  his  own  except  the  emoluments 
of  an  appointment  in  the  Court  of  Louis  Philippe. 

"  But  before,  by  the  death  of  his  parents,  Victor  came  intc  . 
that  inheritance,  he  very  largely  forestalled  it.  His  tastes  were 
magnificent.  He  took  to  '  sport ';  kept  a  famous  stud,  was  a 
great  favorite  with  the  English,  and  spoke  their  language 
fluently.  Indeed,  he  was  considered  very  accomplished,  and 
of  considerable  intellectual  powers.  It  was  generally  said  that 
some  day  or  other,  when  he  had  sown  his  wild  oats,  he  would, 
if  he  took  to  politics,  be  an  eminent  man.  Altogether  he  was 
a  very  strong  creature.  That  was  a  very  strong  age  under 
Louis  Philippe.  The  viveurs  of  Paris  were  fine  types  for  the 
heroes  of  Dumas  and  Sue  ;  full  of  animal  life  and  spirits. 
Victor  de  Mauleon  was  a  romance  of  Dumas  incarnated." 

"  M.  Renard,  forgive  me  that  I  did  not  before  do  justice  to 
your  taste  in  polite  literature." 

"  Monsieur,  a  man  in  my  profession  does  not  attain  even  to 
my  humble  eminence  if  he  be  not  something  else  than  a  pro- 
fessional. He  must  study  mankind  wherever  they  are  de- 
scribed— even  in  les  romans.  To  return  to  Victor  de  Mauleon. 
Though  he  was  a  '  sportsman,'  a  gambler,  a  Don  Juan,  a 
duellist,  nothing  was  ever  said  against  his  honor.  On  the  con- 
trary, on  matters  of  honor  he  was  a  received  oracle  ;  and  even 
though  he  had  fought  several  duels  (that  was  the  age  of  duels), 
and  was  reported  without  a  superior,  almost  without  an  equal, 
in  either  weapon,  the  sword  or  the  pistol,  he  is  said  never  to 
have  wantonly  provoked  an  encounter,  and  to  have  so  used  his 
skill  that  he  contrived  never  to  slay,  nor  even  gravely  to  wound, 
an  antagonist. 

"  I  remember  one  instance  of  his  generosity  in  this  respect, 
for  it  was  much  talked  of  at  the  time.  One  of  your  country- 
men, who  had  never  handled  a  fencing-foil  nor  fired  a  pistol, 
took  offence  at  something  M.  de  Maule'on  had  said  in  dispar- 
agement of  the  Duke  of  Wellington,  and  called  him  out.  Vic- 
tor de  Mauleon  accepted  the  challenge,  discharged  his  pistols, 
not  in  the  air — that  might  have  been  an  affront — but  so  as  to 


PARISIANS; 

be  wide  of  the  mark,  walked  up  to  the  lines  to  be  shot  at,  and 
when  missed,  said  :  '  Excuse  the  susceptibility  of  a  Frenchman, 
loth  to  believe  that  his  countrymen  can  be  beaten  save  by 
accident,  and  accept  every  apology  one  gentleman  can  make  to 
another  for  having  forgotten  the  respect  due  to  one  of  the 
most  renowned  of  your  national  heroes.'  The  Englishman's 
name  was  Vane.  Could  it  have  been  your  father  ? " 

"Very  probably;  just  like  my  father  to  call  out  any  man 
who  insulted  the  honor  of  his  country,  as  represented  by  its 
men.  I  hope  the  two  combatants  became  friends  ?" 

"  That  I  never  heard  ;  the  duel  was  over — there  my  story 
ends." 

"  Pray  go  on." 

"One  day — it  was  in  the  midst  of  political  events  which 
would  have  silenced  most  subjects  of  private  gossip — the  beau 
mo  tide  was  startled  by  the  news  that  the  Vicomte  (he  was  then, 
by  his  father's  death,  Vicomte)  de  Mauleon  had  been  given  into 
the  custody  of  the  police  on  the  charge  of  stealing  the  jewels  of 

the  Duchesse  de (the  wife  of  a  distinguished  foreigner). 

It  seems  that  some  days  before  this  event,  the  Due,  wishing  to 
make  Madame  his  spouse  an  agreeable  surprise,  had  resolved 
to  have  a  diamond  necklace  belonging  to  her,  and  which  was 
of  setting  so  old-fashioned  that  she  had  not  lately  worn  it,  reset 
for  her  birthday.  He  therefore  secretly  possessed  himself  of  a 
key  to  an  iron  safe  in  a  cabinet  adjoining  her  dressing-room 
(in  which  safe  her  more  valuable  jewels  were  kept),  and  took 
from  it  the  necklace.  Imagine  his  dismay  when  the  jeweller 
in  the  Rue  Vivienne  to  whom  he  carried  it  recognized  the 
pretended  diamonds  as  imitation  paste  which  he  himself  had 
some  days  previously  inserted  into  an  empty  setting  brought  to 
him  by  a  monsieur  with  whose  name  he  was  unacquainted. 
The  Duchesse  was  at  that  time  in  delicate  health  ;  and  as  the 
Due's  suspicions  naturally  fell  on  the  servants,  especially  on  the 
femme  de  chambre,  who  was  in  great  favor  with  his  wife,  he  did 
not  like  to  alarm  Madame,  nor  through  her  to  put  the  servants 
on  their  guard.  He  resolved,  therefore,  to  place  the  matter  in 

the  hands  of  the  famous ,  who  was  then  the  pride  and 

the  ornament  of  the  Parisian  police.  And  the  very  night  after- 
wards the  Vicomte  de  Mauleon  was  caught  and  apprehended 
in  the  cabinet  where  the  jewels  were  kept,  and  to  which  he  had 
got  access  by  a  false  key,  or  at  least  a  duplicate  key  found  in 
his  possession.  I  should  observe  that  M.  de  Mauleon  occupied 
the  entresol  in  the  same  hotel  in  which  the  upper  rooms  were 
devoted  to  the  Due  and  Duchesse  and  their  suite.  As  soon 


tHE    PARISIANS.  ttf 

as  this  charge  against  the  Vicomte  was  made  known  (and 
it  was  known  the  next  morning),  the  extent  of  his  debts 
and  the  utterness  of  his  ruin  (before  scarcely  conjectured  or 
wholly  unheeded)became  public  through  the  medium  of  the 
journals,  and  furnished  an  obvious  motive  for  the  crime  of 
which  he  was  accused.  We  Parisians,  Monsieur,  are  subject 
to  the  most  startling  reactions  of  feeling.  The  men  we  adore 
one  day  we  execrate  the  next.  The  Vicomte  passed  at  once 
from  the  popular  admiration  one  bestows  on  a  hero,  to  the  pop- 
ular contempt  with  which  one  regards  a  petty  larcener.  Soci- 
ety wondered  how  it  had  ever  condescended  to  receive  into  its 
bosom  the  gambler,  the  duellist,  the  Don  Juan.  However, 
one  compensation  in  the  way  of  amusement  he  might  still 
afford  to  society  for  the  grave  injuries  he  had  done  it.  Society 
would  attend  his  trial,  witness  his  demeanor  at  the  bar,  and 
watch  the  expression  of  his  face  when  he  was  sentenced  to  the 
galleys.  But,  Monsieur,  this  wretch  completed  the  measure  of 
his  iniquities.  He  was  not  tried  at  all.  The  Due  and  Duch- 
esse  quitted  Paris  for  Spain,  and  the  Due  instructed  his  lawyer 
to  withdraw  his  charge,  stating  his  conviction  of  the  Vicomte's 
complete  innocence  of  any  other  offence  than  that  which  he 
himself  had  confessed." 

"  What  did  the  Vicomte  confess  !  You  omitted  to  state 
that." 

"  The  Vicomte,  when  apprehended,  confessed  that,  smitten 
by  an  insane  passion  for  the  Duchesse,  which  she  had,  on  his 
presuming  to  declare  it,  met  with  indignant  scorn,  he  had 
taken  advantage  of  his  lodgment  in  the  same  house  to  admit 
himself  into  the  cabinet  adjoining  her  dressing-room  by  means 
of  a  key  which  he  had  procured,  made  from  an  impression  of 
the  keyhole  taken  in  wax. 

"  No  evidence  in  support  of  any  other  charge  against  the 
Vicomte  was  forthcoming  ;  nothing,  in  short,  beyond  the  in- 
fraction du  domicile  caused  by  the  madness  of  youthful  love, 
and  for  which  there  was  no  prosecution.  The  law,  therefore, 
could  have  littte  to  say  against  him.  But  society  was  more 
rigid  ;  and,  exceedingly  angry  to  find  that  a  man  who  had 
been  so  conspicuous  for  luxury  should  prove  to  be  a  pauper, 
insisted  on  believing  that  M.  de  Mauleon  was  guilty  of  the 
meaner,  though  not  perhaps,  in  the  eyes  of  husbands  and 
fathers,  the  more  heinous,  of  the  two  offences.  I  presume 
that  the  Vicomte  felt  that  he  had  got  into  a  dilemma  from 
which  no  pistol-shot  or  sword-thrust  could  free  him,  for  he 
left  Paris  abruptly,  and  has  not  since  reappeared.  The  sale  of 


148  THE   PARISIANS. 

his  stud  and  effects  sufficed,  I  believe,  to  pay  his  debts,  for  \ 
will  do  him  the  justice  to  say  that  they  were  paid." 

"  But  though  the  Vicomte  de  Mauleon  has  disappeared,  he 
must  have  left  relations  at  Paris,  who  would  perhaps  know 
what  has  become  of  him  and  of  his  niece." 

"  I  doubt  it.  He  had  no  very  near  relations.  The  near- 
est was  an  old  cttibataire  of  the  same  name,  from  whom  he 
had  some  expectations,  but  who  died  shortly  after  this  esclamlre, 
and  did  not  name  the  Vicomte  in  his  will.  M.  Victor  had 
numerous  connections  among  the  highest  families — the  Roche- 
briants,  Chavignys,  Vandemars,  Passys,  Beauvilliers.  But  they 
are  not  likely  to  have  retained  any  connection  with  a  ruined 
vaurien,  and  still  less  with  a  niece  of  his  who  was  the  child  of 
a  drawing-master.  But  now  you  have  given  me  a  clue,  I  will 
try  to  follow  it  up.  We  must  find  the  Vicomte,  and  I  am  not 
without  hope  of  doing  so.  Pardon  me  if  I  decline  to  say  more 
at  present.  I  would  not  raise  false  expectations.  But  in  a 
week  or  two  I  will  have  the  honor  to  call  again  upon  Monsieur." 

"  Wait  one  instant.  You  have  really  a  hope  of  discovering 
M.  de  Mauleon  ?" 

"  Yes.     I  cannot  say  more  at  present." 

M.  Renard  departed. 

Still  that  hope,  however  faint  it  might  prove,  served  to  re- 
animate Graham  ;  and  with  that  hope  his  heart,  as  if  a  load 
had  been  lifted  from  its  mainspring,  returned  instinctively  to 
the  thought  of  Isaura.  Whatever  seemed  to  promise  an  early 
discharge  of  the  commission  connected  with  the  discovery  of 
Louise  Duval  seemed  to  bring  Isaura  nearer  to  him,  or  at  least 
to  excuse  his  yearning  desire  to  see  more  of  her,  to  understand 
her  better.  Faded  into  thin  air  was  the  vague  jealousy  of 
Gustave  Rameau  which  he  had  so  unreasonably  conceived  ;  he 
felt  as  if  it  were  impossible  that  the  man  whom  the  "  Ondine 
of  Paris  "  claimed  as  her  lover  could  dare  to  woo  or  hope  to 
win  an  Isaura.  He  even  forgot  the  friendship  with  the  elo- 
quent denouncer  of  the  marriage-bond,  which,  a  little  while 
ago  had  seemed  to  him  an  unpardonable  offence  :  he  remem- 
bered only  the  lovely  face,  so  innocent,  yet  so  intelligent ;  only 
the  sweet  voice  which  had  for  the  first  time  breathed  music 
into  his  own  soul ;  only  the  gentle  hand  whose  touch  had  for 
the  first  time  sent  through  his  veins  the  thrill  which  distin- 
guishes from  all  her  sex  the  woman  whom  we  love.  He  went 
forth  elated  and  joyous,  and  took  his  way  to  Isaura's  villa.  As 
he  went,  the  leaves  on  the  trees  under  which  he  passed  seemed 
stirred  by  the  soft  May  breeze  in  sympathy  with  his  own  de- 


THE    PARISIANS.  149 

light.  Perhaps  it  was  rather  the  reverse  :  his  own  silent  de- 
light sympathized  with  all  delight  in  awakening  nature.  The 
lover  seeking  reconciliation  with  the  loved  one,  from  whom 
some  trifle  has  unreasonably  estranged  him,  in  a  cloudless  day 
of  May, — if  he  be  not  happy  enough  to  feel  a  brotherhood  in 
all  things  happy  :  a  leaf  in  bloom,  a  bird  in  song — then  in- 
deed he  may  call  himself  lover,  but  he  does  not  know  what  is 
love. 


BOOK   IV. 


CHAPTER  I. 

From  Isaura  Cicogna  to  Madame  de  Grantmesnil. 

IT  is  many  days  since  I  wrote  to  you,  and  but  for  your  de- 
lightful note  just  received,  reproaching  me  for  silence,  I  should 
still  be  under  the  spell  of  that  awe  which  certain  words  of  M. 
Savarin  were  well  fitted  to  produce.  Chancing  to  ask  him  if 
he  had  written  to  you  lately,  he  said,  with  that  laugh  of  his, 
good-humoredly  ironical  :  "  No,  Mademoiselle,  I  am  not  one  of 
the  Facheux  whom  Moliere  has  immortalized.  If  the  meeting 
of  lovers  should  be  sacred  from  the  intrusion  of  a  third  person, 
however  amiable,  more  sacred  still  should  be  the  parting  be- 
tween an  author  and  his  work.  Madame  de  Grantmesnil  is  in 
that  moment  so  solemn  to  a  genius  earnest  as  hers  ;  she  is  bid- 
ding farewell  to  a  companion  with  whom,  once  dismissed  into 
the  world,  she  can  never  converse  familiarly  again  ;  it  ceases 
to  be  her  companion  when  it  becomes  ours.  Do  not  let  us  dis- 
turb the  last  hours  they  will  pass  together." 

These  words  struck  me  mucji.  I  suppose  there  is  truth  in 
them.  I  can  comprehend  that  a  work  which  has  long  been  all 
in  all  to  its  author,  concentrating  his  thoughts,  gathering  round 
it  the  hopes  and  fears  of  his  inmost  heart  dies,  as  it  were,  to 
him  when  he  has  completed  its  life  for  others,  and  launched  it 
into  a  world  estranged  from  the  solitude  in  which  it  was  born 
and  formed.  I  can  almost  conceive  that,  to  a  writer  like  you, 
the  very  fame  which  attends  the  work  thus  sent  forth  chills 
your  own  love  for  it.  The  characters  you  created  in  a  fairy- 
land known  but  to  yourself  must  lose  something  of  their  roys- 


150  THE    PARISIANS. 

terious  charm  when  you  hear  them  discussed  and  cavilled  at, 
blamed  or  praised,  as  if  they  were  really  the  creatures  of  streets 
and  salons. 

I  wonder  if  hostile  criticism  pains  or  enrages  you  as  it  seems 
to  do  such  other  authors  as  I  have  known.  M.  Savarin,  for 
instance,  sets  down  in  his-tablets  as  an  enemy  to  whom  ven- 
geance is  due  the  smallest  scribbler  who  wounds  his  self-love, 
and  says  frankly  :  "  To  me  praise  is  food,  dispraise  is  poison. 
Him  who  feeds  me  I  pay  ;  him  who  poisons  me  I  break  on  the 
wheel."  M.  Savarin  is,  indeed,  a  skilful  and  energetic  admin- 
istrator to  his  own  reputation.  He  deals  with  it  as  if  it  were  a 
kingdom  :  establishes  fortifications  for  its  defence,  enlists 
soldiers  to  fight  for  it.  He  is  the  soul  and  centre  of  a  confed- 
eration in  which  each  is  bound  to  defend  the  territory  of  the 
others,  and  all  those ^erritories  united  constitute  the  imperial 
realm  of  M.  Savarin.  Don't  think  me  an  ungracious  satirist 
in  what  I  am  thus  saying  of  our  brilliant  friend.  It  is  not  I 
who  here  speak  ;  it  is  himself.  He  avows  his  policy  with  the 
naivetf  which  makes  the  charm  of  his  style  as  writer.  "It  is 
the  greatest  mistake,"  he  said  to  me  yesterday,  "  to  talk  of  the 
Republic  of  Letters.  Every  author  who  wins  a  name  is  a 
sovereign  in  his  own  domain,  be  it  large  or  small.  Woe  to 
any  republican  who  wants  to  dethrone  me  ! "  Somehow  or 
other,  when  M.  Savarin  thus  talks  I  feel  as  if  he  were  betraying 
the  cause  of  genius.  I  cannot  bring  myself  to  regard  literature 
as  a  craft  ;  to  me  it  is  a  sacred  mission  ;  and  in  hearing  this 
"sovereign"  boast  of  the  tricks  by  which  he  maintains  his 
state,  I  seem  to  listen  to  a  priest  who  treats  as  imposture  the 
religion  he  professes  to  teach.  M.  Savarin's  favorite  dive  now 
is  a  young  contributor  to  his  journal,  named  Gustave  Rameau. 
M.  Savarin  said  the  other  day  in  my  hearing,  "  I  and  my  set 
were  Young  France ;  Gustave  Rameau  and  his  set  are  New 
Saris." 

"And  what  is  the  distinction  between  the  one  and  the 
other?"  asked  my  American  friend  Mrs.  Morley. 

"The  set  of  'Young  France,'  "  answered  M.  Savarin,  "had  in 
it  the  hearty  consciousness  of  youth  :  it  was  bold  and  vehe- 
ment, with  abundant  vitality  and  animal  spirits  ;  whatever  may 
be  said  against  it  in  other  respects,  the  power  of  thews  and 
sinews  must  be  conceded  to  its  chief  representatives.  But  the 
set  of  '  New  Paris  '  has  very  bad  health,  and  very  indifferent 
spirits.  Still,  in  its  way,  it  is  very  clever  ;  it  can  sting  and 
bite  as  keenly  as  if  it  were  big  and  strong.  Rameau  is  the 
most  promising  member  of  the  set.  He  will  be  popular  in  his. 


THE    PARISIANS.  151 

time,  because  he  represents  a  good  deal  of  the  mind  of  his 
time, — viz.,  the  mind  and  the  time  of  'New  Paris.'" 

Do  you  know  anything  of  this  young  Rameau's  writings  ? 
You  do  not  know  himself,  for  he  told  me  so,  expressing  a  de- 
sire, that  was  evidently  very  sincere,  to  find  some  occasion  on 
which  to  render  you  his  homage.  He  said  this  the  first  time  I 
met  him  at  M.  Savarin's,  and  before  he  knew  how  dear  to  me 
are  yourself  and  your  fame.  He  came  and  sate  by  me  after 
dinner,  and  won  my  interest  at  once  by  asking  me  if  I  had 
heard  that  you  were  busied  on  a  new  work  ;  and  then,  without 
waiting  for  my  answer,  he  launched  forth  into  praises  of  you, 
which  made  a  notable  contrast  to  the  scorn  with  which'  he 
spoke  of  all  your  contemporaries,  except,  indeed,  M.  Savarin, 
who,  however,  might  not  have  been  pleased  to  hear  his  favor- 
ite pupil  style  him  "a  great  writer  in  small  things."  I  spare 
you  his  epigrams  on  Dumas  and  Victor  Hugo,  and  my  beloved 
Lamartine.  Though  his  talk  was  showy,  and  dazzled  me  at 
first,  I  soon  got  rather  tired  of  it,  even  the  first  time  we  met. 
Since  then  1  have  seen  him  very  often,  not  only  at  M.  Sava- 
rin's, but  he  calls  here  at  least  every  other  day,  and  we  have 
become  quite  good  friends.  He  gains  on  acquaintance  so  far 
that  one  cannot  help  feeling  how  much  he  is  to  be  pitied.  He 
is  so  envious  !  And  the  envious  must  be  so  unhappy.  And 
then  he  is  at  once  so  near  and  so  far  from  all  the  things  that 
he  envies.  He  longs  for  riches  and  luxury,  and  can  only  as 
yet  earn  a  bare  competence  by  his  labors.  Therefore  he  hates 
the  rich  and  luxurious.  His  literary  successes,  'instead  of 
pleasing  him,  render  him  miserable  by  their  contrast  with  the 
fame  of  the  authors  whom  he  envies  and  assails.  He  has  a 
beautiful  head,  of  which  he  is  conscious,  but  it  is  joined  to  a 
body  without  strength  or  grace.  He  is  conscious  of  this  too  : 
but  it  is  cruel  to  go  on  with  this  sketch.  You  can  see  at  once 
the  kind  of  person  who,  whether  he  inspires  affection  or  dislike, 
cannot  fail  to  create  an  interest — painful  but  compassionate. 

You  will  be  pleased  to  hear  that  Dr.  C.  considers  my  health 
so  improved  that  I  may  next  year  enter  fairly  on  the  profes- 
sion for  which  I  was  intended  and  trained.  Yet  Instill  feel 
hesitating  and  doubtful.  To  give  myself  wholly  up  to  the  art 
in  which  I  am  told  I  could  excel,  must  alienate  me  entirely 
from  the  ambition  that  yearns  for  fields  in  which,  alas  !  it  may 
perhaps  never  appropriate  to  itself  a  rood  for  culture  ;  only 
wander,  lost  in  a  vague  fairyland,  to  which  it  has  not  the  fairy's 
birthright.  O  thou  great  enchantress,  to  whom  are  equally 
subject  the  streets  of  Paris  and  the  realm  of  faerie — thou  who 


152  THE    PARISIANS. 

hast  sounded  to  the  deeps  that  circumfluent  ocean  called 
"  practical  human  life,"  and  hast  taught  the  acutest  of  its  navi- 
gators to  consider  how  far  its  courses  are  guided  by  orbs  in 
heaven — canst  thou  solve  this  riddle  which,  if  it  perplexes  me, 
must  perplex  so  many  ?  What  is  the  real  distinction  between 
the  rare  genius  and  the  commonalty  of  human  souls  that  feel 
to  the  quick  all  the  grandest  and  divinest  things  which  the 
rare  genius  places  before  them,  sighing  within  themselves: 
"  This  rare  genius  does  but  express  that  which  was  previously 
familiar  to  us,  so  far  as  thought  and  sentiment  extend  ?  "  Nay, 
the  genius  itself,  however  eloquent,  never  does,  never  can,  ex- 
press the  whole  of  the  thought  or  the  sentiment  it  interprets  :  on 
the  contrary,  the  greater  the  genius  is  the  more  it  leaves 
a  something  of  incomplete  satisfaction  on  our  minds ;  it 
promises  so  much  more  than  it  performs  ;  it  implies  so  much 
mere  than  it  announces.  I  am  impressed  with  the  truth  of 
what  I  thus  say  in  proportion  as  I  reperuse  and  restudy  the 
greatest  writers  that  have,  come  within  my  narrow  range  of 
reading.  And  by  the  greatest  writers  I  mean  those  who  are 
not  exclusively  reasoners  (of  such  I  cannot  judge),  nor  mere 
poets  (of  whom,  so  far  as  concerns  the  union  of  words  with 
music,  I  ought  to  be  able  to  judge),  but  the  few  who  unite  rea- 
son and  poetry,  and  appeal  at  once  to  the  common-sense  of 
the  multitude  and  the  imagination  of  the  few.  The  highest 
type  of  this  union  to  me  is  Shakspeare  ;  and  I  can  compre- 
hend the  justice  of  no  criticism  on  him  which  does  not  allow  this 
sense  of  incomplete  satisfaction  augmenting  in  proportion  as 
the  poet  soars  to  his  highest.  I  ask  again,  in  what  consists 
this  distinction  between  the  rare  genius  and  the  commonalty 
of  minds  that  exclaim  :  "  He  expresses  what  we  feel,  but  never 
the  whole  of  what  we  feel."  Is  it  the  mere  power  over  lan- 
guage, a  larger  knowledge  of  dictionaries,  a  finer  ear  for 
period  and  cadence,  a  more  artistic  craft  in  casing  our  thoughts 
and  sentiments  in  well-selected  words  ?  Is  it  true  what  Buff  on 
says,  "  that  the  style  is  the  man"?  Is  it  true  what  I  am  told 
Goethe  said,  "  Poetry  is  form  "  ?  I  cannot  believe  this  ;  and 
if  you  tell  me  it  is  true,  then  I  no  longer  pine  to  be  a  writer. 
But  if  ifbe  not  true,  explain  to  me  how  it  is  that  the  greatest 
genius  is  popular  in  proportion  as  it  makes  itself  akin  to  us  by 
uttering  in  better  words  than  we  employ  that  which  was  al- 
ready within  us,  brings  to  light  what  in  our  souls  was  latent, 
and  does  but  correct,  beautify,  and  publish  the  correspondence 
which  an  ordinary  reader  carries  on  privately  every  day,  be- 
tween himself  and  his  mind  or  his  heart.  Jf  this,  superiority 


TttE   PARISIANS.  1$3 

in  the  genius  be  but  style  and  form,  I  abandon  my  dream  of 
being  something  else  than  a  singer  of  words  by  another  to  the 
music  of  another.  But  then,  what  then  ?  My  knowledge  of 
books  and  art  is  wonderfully  small.  What  little  I  do  know  I 
gather  from  very  few  books,  and  from  what  I  hear  said  by  the  few 
worth  listening  to  whom  I  happen  to  meet ;  and  out  of  these, 
in  solitude  and  revery,  not  by  conscious  effort,  I  arrive  at  some 
results  which  appear  to  my  experience  original.  Perhaps,  in- 
deed, they  have  the  same  kind  of  originality  as  the  musical 
compositions  of  amateurs  who  effect  a  cantata  or  a  quartette 
made  up  of  borrowed  details  from  great  masters,  and  consti- 
tuting a  whole  so  original  that  no  real  master  would  deign  to 
own  it.  Oh,  if  I  could  get  you  to  understand  how  unsettled, 
how  struggling  my  whole  nature  at  this  moment  is !  I  wonder 
what  is  the  sensation  of  the  chrysalis  which  has  been  a  silk- 
worm, when  it  first  feels  the  new  wings  stirring  within  its  shell — 
wings,  alas  !  they  are  but  those  of  the  humblest  and  shortest- 
lived  sort  of  moth,  scarcely  born  into  daylight  before  it  dies. 
Could  it  reason,  it  might  regret  its  earlier  life,  and  say,  "Better 
be  the  silk-worm  than  the  moth." 

From  the  Same  to  tJie  Same. 

Have  you  known  well  any  English  people  in  the  course  of 
your  life  ?  I  say  well,  for  you  must  have  had  acquaintance 
with  many.  But  it  seems  to  me  so  difficult  to  know  an  English- 
man well.  Even  I,  who  so  loved  and  revered  Mr.  Selby — I, 
whose  childhood  was  admitted  into  his  companionship  by  that 
love  which  places  ignorance  and  knowledge,  infancy  and  age, 
upon  ground  so  equal  that  heart  touches  heart— 1cannot  say 
that  I  understand  the  English  character  to  anything  like  the 
extent  to  which  I  fancy  I  understand  the  Italian  and  the 
French.  Between  us  of  the  Continent  and  them  of  the  island 
the  British  Channel  always  flows.  There  is  an  Englishman 
here  to  whom  I  have  been  introduced,  whom  I  have  met, 
though  but  seldom,  in  that  society  which  bounds  the  Paris 
world  to  me.  Pray,  pray  tell  me,  did  you  ever  know,  ever 
meet  him  ?  His  name  is  Graham  Vane.  He  is  the  only  son,  I 
am  told,  of  a  man  who  was  a  eele'brite'  in  England  as  an  orator 
and  statesman,  and  on  both  sides  he  belongs  to  the  haute  aris- 
tocratic. He  himself  has  that  indescribable  air  and  mien  to 
which  we  apply  the  epithet  u  distinguished."  In  the  most 
crowded  salon  the  eye  would  fix  on  him,  and  involuntarily  fol- 
low his  movements.  Yet  his  manners  are  frank  and  simple, 
wholly  without  the  stiffness  or  reserve  which  are  said  to  charac- 


154  THE   PARISIANS. 

terize  the  English.  There  is  an  inborn  dignity  in  his  bearing 
which  consists  in  the  absence  of  all  dignity  assumed.  But 
what  strikes  me  most  in  this  Englishman  is  an  expression  of 
countenance  which  the  English  depict  by  the  word 'open  ' — 
that  expression  which  inspires  you  with  a  belief  in  the  ex- 
istence of  sincerity.  Mrs.  Morley  said  of  him,  in  that  poetic 
extravagance  of  phrase  by  which  the  Americans  startle  the 
English  :  "That  man's  forehead  would  light  up  the  Mammoth 
Cave."  Do  you  not  know,  Eulalie,  what  it  is  to  us  cultivators 
of  art — art  being  the  expression  of  truth  through  fiction — to 
come  into  the  atmosphere  of  one  of  those  souls  in  which  Truth 
stands  out  bold  and  beautiful  in  itself,  and  needs  no  ideal- 
ization through  fiction  ?  Oh,  how  near  we  should  be  to  heaven 
could  we  live  daily,  hourly,  in  the  presence  of  one  the  honesty 
of  whose  word  we  could  never  doubt,  the  authority  of  whose 
word  we  could  never  disobey  !  Mr.  Vane  professes  not  to 
understand  music — not  even  to  care  for  it,  except  rarely — and 
yet  he  spoke  of  its  influence  over  others  with  an  enthusiasm 
that  half  charmed  me  once  more  back  to  my  destined  calling  ; 
nay,  might  have  charmed  me  wholly,  but  that  he  seemed  to 
think  that  I — that  any  public  singer — must  be  a  creature  apart 
from  the  world — the  world  in  which  such  men  live.  Perhaps 
that  is  true. 


CHAPTER  II. 

IT  was  one  of  those  lovely  noons  towards  the  end  of  May 
in  which  the  rural  suburb  has  the  mellow  charm  of  summer  to 
him  who  escapes  awhile  from  the  streets  of  a  crowded  capital. 
The  Londoner  knows  its  charms  when  he  feels  his  tread  on  the 
softening  swards  of  the  Vale  of  Health,  or,  pausing  at  Rich- 
mond under  the  budding  willow,  gazes  on  the  river  glittering 
in  the  warmer  sunlight,  and  hears  from  the  villa-gardens  be- 
hind him  the  brief  trill  of  the  blackbird.  But  the  suburbs 
round  Paris  are,  I  think,  a  yet  more  pleasing  relief  from  the 
metropolis  ;  they  are  more  easily  reached,  and  I  know  not 
why,  but  they  seem  more  rural,  perhaps  because  the  contrast 
of  their  repose  with  the  stir  left  behind — of  their  redundance 
of  leaf  and  blossom,  compared  with  the  trim  efflorescence  of 
trees  in  the  Boulevards  and  Tuileries,  is  more  striking. 
However  that  may  be,  when  Graham  reached  the  pretty  sub- 
urb in  which  Isaura  dwelt,  it  seemed  to  him  as  if  all  the  wheels 
of  the  loud,  busy  life  were  suddenly  smitten  still.  The  hour 


THE    PARISIANS.  J55 

was  yet  early  ;  he  felt  sure  that  he  should  find  Isaura  at  home. 
The  garden-gate  stood  unfastened  and  ajar  ;  he  pushed  it  aside 
and  entered.  1  think  I  have  before  said  that  the  garden  of 
the  villa  was  shilt'out  from  the  road,  and  the  gaze  of  neigh- 
bors, by  a  wall  and  thick  belts  of  evergreens  ;  it  stretched 
behind  the  house  somewhat  far  for  the  garden  of  a  suburban 
villa.  He  paused  when  he  had  passed  the  gateway,  for  he  heard 
in  the  distance  the  voice  of  one  singing — singing  low,  singingx 
plaintively.  He  knew  it  was  the  voice  of  Isaura  ;  he  passed  on, 
leaving  the  house  behind  him,  and  tracking  the  voice  till  he 
reached  the  singer. 

Isaura  was  seated  within  an  arbor  towards  the  further  end  of 
the  garden — an  arbor  which,  a  little  later  in  the  year,  must 
indeed  be  delicate  and  dainty  with  lush  exuberance  of  jessa- 
mine and  woodbine  ;  now  into  its  iron  trelliswork  leaflet  and 
flowers  were  insinuating  their  gentle  way.  Just  at  the  entrance 
one  white  rose — a  winter  rose  that  had  mysteriously  survived 
its  relations — opened  its  pale  hues  frankly  to  the  noonday  sun. 
Graham  approached  slowly,  noiselessly,  and  the  last  note  of 
the  song  had  ceased  when  he  stood  at  the  entrance  of  the 
arbor.  Isaura  did  not  perceive  him  at  first,  for  her  face  was 
bent  downward  musingly,  as  was  often  her  wont  after  singing, 
^especially  when  alone.  But  she  felt  that  the  place  was  dark- 
ened, that  something  stood  between  her  and  the  sunshine.  She 
raised  her  face,  and  a  quick  flush  mantled  over  it  as  she  ut- 
tered his  name,  not  loudly,  not  as  in  surprise,  but  inwardly 
and  whisperingly,  as  in  a  sort  of  fear. 

"Pardon  me,  Mademoiselle,"  said  Graham,  entering;  "but 
I  heard  your  voice  as  I  came  into  the  garden,  and  it  drew  me 
onward  involuntarily.  What  a  lovely  air  !  And  what  simple 
sweetness  in  such  of  the  words  as  reached  me  !  I  am 
so  ignorant  of  music  that  you  must  not  laugh  at  me  if  1  ask 
whose  is  the  music  and  whose  are  the  words  ?  Probably  both 
are  so  well  known  as  to  convict  me  of  a  barbarous  ignorance." 

"Oh  no,"  said  Isaura,  with  a  still  heightened  color,  and  in 
accents  embarrassed  and  hesitating.  "  Both  the  words  and 
music  are  by  an  unknown  and  very  humble  composer,  yet  not, 
indeed,  quite  original  ;  they  have  not  even  that  merit ;  at  least 
they  were  suggested  by  a  popular  song  in  the  Neapolitan  dia- 
lect which  is  said  to  be  very  old." 

"  I  don't  know  if  I  caught  the  true  meaning  of  the  words, 
for  they  seemed  to  me  to  convey  a  more  subtle  and  refined 
sentiment  than  is  common  in  the  popular  songs  of  southern 
Italy." 


156  THE   PARISIANS. 

"  The  sentiment  in  the  original  is  changed  in  the  paraphrase, 
and  not,  I  fear,  improved  by  the  change." 

"  Will  you  explain  to  me  the  sentiment  in  .both,  and  let  me 
judge  which  I  prefer?" 

"  In  the  Neapolitan  song  a  young  fisherman,  who  has  moored 
his  boat  under  a  rock  on  the  shore,  sees  a  beautiful  face  below 
the  surface  of  the  waters  ;  he  imagines  it  to  be  that  of  a 
Nereid,  and  casts  in  his  net  to  catch  this  supposed  nymph  of 
the  ocean.  He  only  disturbs  the  water,  loses  the  image,  and 
brings  up  a  few  common  fishes.  He  returns  home  disappoint- 
ed, and  very  much  enamoured  of  the  supposed  Nereid.  The 
next  day  he  goes  again  to  the  same  place,  and  discovers  that 
the  face  which  had  so  charmed  him  was  that  of  a  mortal  girl 
reflected  on  the  waters  from  the  rock  behind  him,  on  which 
she  had  been  seated,  and  on  which  she  had  her  home.  The 
original  air  is  arch  and  lively  ;  just  listen  to  it."  And  Isaura 
warbled  one  of  those  artless  and  somewhat  meagre  tunes  to 
which  light-stringed  instruments  are  the  fitting  accompani- 
ment. 

"That,"  said  Graham,  "is  a  different  music  indeed  from  the 
other,  which  is  deep  and  plaintive,  and  goes  to  the  heart." 

"  But  do  you  not  see  how  the  words  have  been  altered  ?  In  the 
song  you  first  heard  me  singing,  the  fisherman  goes  again  to 
the  spot,  again  and  again  sees  the  face  in  the  water,  again  and 
again  seeks  to  capture  the  Nereid,  and  never  knows  to  the  last 
that  the  face  was  that  of  the  mortal  on  the  rock  close  behind 
him,  and  which  he  passed  by  without  notice  every  day. 
Deluded  by  an  ideal  image,  the  real  one  escapes  from  his 
eye." 

"  Is  the.  verse  that  is  recast  meant  to  symbolize  a  moral  in 
love?" 

"In  love?  Nay,  I  know  not ;  but  in  life,  yes — at  least  the 
life  of  the  artist." 

"  The  paraphrase  of  the  original  is  yours,-  Signorina — words 
and  music  both.  Am  I  not  right  ?  Your  silence  answers 
'  Yes.'  Will  you  pardon  me  if  I  say  that,  though  there  can  be 
no  doubt  of  the  new  beauty  you  have  given  to  the  old  song,  I 
think  that  the  moral  of  the  old  was  the  sounder  one,  the  truer 
to  human  life.  We  do  not  go  on  to  the  last  duped  by  an  illu- 
sion. If  enamoured  by  the  shadow  on  the  waters,  still  we  do 
look  around  us  and  discover  the  image  it  reflects." 

Isaura  shook  her  head  gently,  but  made  no  answer.  On  the 
table  before  her  there  were  a  few  myrtle-sprigs  and  one  or  two 
buds  from  the  last  winter  rose,  which  she  had  been  arranging 


THE    PARISIANS.  157 

into  a  simple  nosegay ;  she  took  up  these,  and  abstractedly  be- 
gan to  pluck  and  scatter  the  rose-leaves. 

"  Despise  the  coming  May  flowers  if  you  will,  they  will  soon 
be  so  plentiful,"  said  Graham  ;  "but  do  not  cast  away  the  few 
blossoms  which  winter  has  so  kindly  spared,  and  which  even 
summer  will  not  give  again."  And,  placing  his  hand  on  the 
winter  buds,  it  touched  hers — lightly,  indeed,  but  she  felt  the 
touch,  shrank  from  it,  colored,  and  rose  from  her  seat. 

"  The  sun  has  left  this  side  of  the  garden,  the  east  wind  is 
rising,  and  you  must  find  it  chilly  here,"  she  said,  in  an  altered 
tone  ;  "will  you  not  come  into  the  house  ?" 

"It  is  not  the  air  that  I  feel  chilly,"  said  Graham,  with  a 
half  smile;  "  I  almost  fear  that  my  prosaic  admonitions  have 
displeased  you." 

"  They  were  not  prosaic  ;  and  they  were  kind  and  very  wise," 
she  added,  with  her  exquisite  laugh — laugh  so  wonderfully 
sweet  and  musical.  She  now  had  gained  the  entrance  of  the 
arbor  ;  Graham  joined  her,  and  they  walked  towards  the  house. 
He  asked  her  if  she  had  seen  much  of  the  Savarins  since  they 
had  met. 

"  Once  or  twice  we  have  been  there  of  an  evening." 

"  And  encountered,  no  doubt,  the  illustrious  young  minstrel 
who  despises  Tasso  and  Corneille  ?  " 

"  M.  Rameau  ?  Oh,  yes  ;  he  is  constantly  at  the  Savarins.  Do 
not  be  severe  on  him.  He  is  unhappy  ;  he  is  struggling  ;  he 
is  soured.  An  artist  has  thorns  in  his  path  which  lookers-on 
do  not  heed." 

"  All  people  have  thorns  in  their  path,  and  I  have  no  great 
respect  for  those  who  want  lookers  on  to  heed  them  whenever 
they  are  scratched.  But  M.  Rameau  seems  to  me  one  of  those 
writers  very  common  nowadays,  in  France  and  even  in  En- 
gland ;  writers  who  have  never  read  anything  worth  studying, 
and  are,  of  course,  presumptuous  in  proportion  to  their  igno- 
rance. I  should  not  have  thought  an  artist  like  yourself  could 
have  recognized  an  artist  in  a  M.  Rameau  who  despises  Tasso 
without  knowing  Italian." 

Graham  spoke  bitterly  ;  he  was  once  more  jealous. 

" Are  you  not  an  artist  yourself?  Are  you  not  a  writer? 
M.  Savarin  told  me  you  were  a  distinguished  man  of  letters." 

"  M.  Savarin  flatters  me  too  much.  I  am  not  an  artist,  and  I 
have  a  great  dislike  to  that  word  as  it  is  now  hackneyed  and 
vulgarized  in  England  and  in  France.  A  cook  calls  himself  an 
artist  ;  a  tailor  does  the  same  ;  a  man  writes  a  gaudy  melo- 
drame,  a  spasmodic  song,  a  sensational  novel,  and  straightway 


158  THE    PARISIANS. 

he  calls  ..imself  an  artist,  and  indulges  in  a  pedantic  jargon 
about  'essence'  and  'form,'  assuring  us  that  a  poet  we  can  un- 
derstand wants  essence,  and  a  poet  we  can  scan  wants  form. 
Thank  heaven,  I  am  not  vain  enough  to  call  myself  artist. 
I  have  written  some  very  dry  lucubrations  in  periodicals,  chiefly 
political,  or  critical,  upon  other  subjects  than  art.  But  why, 
apropos  of  M.  Rameau,  did  you  ask  me  that  question  respect- 
ing myself  ?  " 

"  Because  much  in  your  conversation,"  answered  Isaura,  in 
rather  a  mournful  tone,  "  made  me  suppose  you  had  more 
sympathies  with  art  and  its  cultivators  than  you  cared  to  avow. 
And  if  you  had  such  sympathies,  you  would  comprehend  what 
a  relief  it  is  to  a  poor  aspirant  to  art  like  myself  to  come  into 
communication  with  those  who  devote  themselves  to  any  art 
distinct  from  the  common  pursuits  of  the  world  ;  what  a  relief  it 
is  to  escape  from  the  ordinary  talk  of  society.  There  is  a  sort 
of  instinctive  freemasonry  among  us,  including  masters  and 
disciples,  and  one  art  has  a  fellowship  with  other  arts  ;  mine  is 
but  song  and  music,  yet  I  feel  attracted  towards  a  sculptor,  a 
painter,  a  romance-writer,  a  poet,  as  much  as  towards  a  singer, 
a  musician.  Do  you  understand  why  I  cannot  contemn  M. 
Rameau  as  you  do  ?  I  differ  from  his  tastes  in  literature  ;  I 
do  not  much  admire  such  of  his  writings  as  I  have  read  ;  I 
grant  that  he  overestimates  his  own  genius,  whatever  that  be, 
yet  I  like  to  converse  with  him  :  he  is  a  struggler  upward, 
though  with  weak  wings,  or  with  erring. footsteps,  like  myself." 

"Mademoiselle,"  said  Graham  earnestly,  "  I  cannot  say  how 
I  thank  you  for  this  candor.  Do  not  condemn  me  for  abusing 
it — if — "  he  paused. 

"If  what?" 

"If  I,  so  much  older  than  yourself — I  do  not  say  only  in 
years,  but  in  the  experience  of  life — I  whose  lot  is  cast  among 
those  busy  and '  positive '  pursuits,  which  necessarily  quicken  that 
unromantic  faculty  called  common-sense — if,  I  say,  the  deep 
interest  with  which  you  must  inspire  all  whom  you  admit  into 
an  acquaintance,  even  as  unfamiliar  as  that  now  between  us, 
makes  me  utter  one  caution,  such  as  might  be  uttered  by  a 
friend  or  brother.  Beware  of  those  artistic  sympathies  which 
you  so  touchingly  confess  ;  beware  how,  in  the  great  events  of 
life,  you  allow  fancy  to  misguide  your  reason.  In  choosing 
friends  on  whom  to  rely,  separate  the  artist  from  the  human 
being.  Judge  of  the  human  being  for  what  it  is  in  itself.  Do 
not  worship  the  face  on  the  waters,  blind  to  the  image  on  the 
rock.  In  one  word,  never  see  in  an  artist  like  M.  Rameau  the 


THE    PARISIANS.  159 

human  being  to  whom  you  could  intrust  the  destinies  of  your 
life.  Pardon  me,  pardon  me  ;  we  may  meet  little  hereafter, 
but  you  are  a  creature  so  utterly  new  to  me,  so  wholly  unlike 
any  woman  I  have  ever  before  encountered  and  admired,  and 
to  me  seem  endowed  with  such  wealth  of  mind  and  soulj  ex- 
posed to  such  hazard,  that — that — "  again  he  paused,  and  his 
voice  trembled  as  he  concluded — "that  it  would  be  a  deep  sor- 
row to  me  if,  perhaps,  years  hence,  I  should  have  to  say,  'Alas  ! 
by  what  mistake  has  that  wealth  been  wasted  '  !  " 

While  they  had  thus  conversed,  mechanically  they  had 
turned  away  from  the  house,  and  were  again  standing  before 
the  arbor. 

Graham,  absorbed  in  the  passion  of  his  adjuration,  had  no,t 
till  now  looked  into  the  face  of  the  companion  by  his  side. 
Now,  when  he  had  concluded,  and  heard  no  reply,  he  bent 
down  and  saw  that  Isaura  was  weeping  silently. 

His  heart  smote  him. 

"  Forgive  me,"  he  exclaimed,  drawing  her  hand  into  his  ;  "I 
have  had  no  right  to  talk  thus  ;  but  it  was  not  from  want  of  re- 
spect ;  it  was — it  was — " 

The  hand  which  was  yielded  to  his  pressed  it  gently,  timidly, 
chastely. 

''Forgive!"  murmured  Isaura;  ''Do  you  think  that  I,  an 
orphan,  have  never  longed  for  a  friend  who  would  speak  to  me 
thus  ?  "  And  so  saying,  she  lifted  her  eyes,  streaming  still,  to  his 
bended  countenance — eyes,  despite  their  tears,  so  clear  in  their 
innocent,  limpid  beauty,  so  ingenuous,  so  frank,  so  virgin- 
like,  so  unlike  the  eyes  of  "any  other  woman  he  had  encoun- 
tered and  admired." 

"Alas!"  he  said,  in  quick  and  hurried  accents,  "you  may 
remember,  when  we  have  before  conversed,  how  I,  though  so 
uncultured  in  your  art,  still  recognized  its  beautiful  influence 
upon  human  breasts  ;  how  I  sought  to  combat  your  own  de- 
preciation of  its  rank  among  the  elevating  agencies  of  human- 
ity ;  how,  too,  I  said  that  no  man  could  venture  to  ask  you  to 
renounce  the  boards,  the  lamps — resign  the  fame  of  actress,  of 
singer.  Well,  now  that  you  accord  to  me  the  title  of  friend, 
now  that  you  so  touchingly  remind  me  that  you  are  an  orphan — 
thinking  of  all  the  perils  the  young  and  the  beautiful  of  your 
sex  must  encounter  when  they  abandon  private  life  for  public — 
I  think  that  a  true  friend  might  put  the  question,  '  Can  you  re- 
sign the  fame  of  actress,  of  singer '  ?  " 

"  I  will  answer  you  frankly.  The  profession  which  once  seemed 
to  me  so  alluring  began  to  lose  its  charms  in  my  eyes  some 


160  THE   PARISIANS. 

months  ago.  It  was  your  words,  very  eloquently  expressed,  on 
the  ennobling  effects  of  music  and  song  upon  a  popular  audience, 
that  counteracted  the  growing  distaste  to  rendering  up  my  whole 
life  to  the  vocation  of  the  stage.  But  now  I  think  I  should 
feel  -grateful  to  the  friend  whose  advice  interpreted  the  voice 
of  my  own  heart,  and  bade  me  relinquish  the  career  of  actress." 

Graham's  face  grew  radiant.  But  whatever  might  have  been 
his  reply  was  arrested  ;  voices  and  footsteps  were  heard  be- 
hind. He  turned  round  and  saw  the  Venosta,  the  Savarins, 
and  Gustave  Rameau. 

Isaura  heard  and  saw  also,  started  in  a  sort  of  alarmed  con- 
fusion, and  then  instinctively  retreated  towards  the  arbor. 
%  Graham  hurried  on  to  meet  the  Signoraand  the  visitors,  giv- 
ing time  to  Isaura  to  compose  herself  by  arresting  them  in  the 
pathway  with  conventional  salutations. 

A  few  minutes  later  Isaura  joined  th?m,  and  there  was  talk 
to  which  Graham  scarcely  listened,  though  he  shared  in  it  by 
abstracted  monosyllables.  He  declined  going  into  the  house, 
and  took  leave  at  the  gate.  In  parting,  his  eyes  fixed  them- 
selves on  Isaura.  Gustave  Rameau  was  by  her  side.  That 
nosegay  which  had  been  left  in  the  arbor  was  in  her  hand  ;  and 
though  she  was  bending  over  it,  she  did  not  now  pluck  and 
scatter  the  rose-leaves.  Graham  at  that  moment  felt  no  jealousy 
of  the  fair-faced  young  poet  beside  her. 

As  he  walked  slowly  back,  he  muttered  to  himself  :  "  But 
am  I  yet  in  the  position  to  hold  myself  wholly  free?  Am  I, 
am  I  ?  Were  the  sole  choice  before  me  that  between  her  and 
ambition  and  wealth,  how  soon  it  would  be  made  !  Ambition 
has  no  prize  equal  to  the  heart  of  such  a  woman  :  wealth  no 
sources  of  joy  equal  to  the  treasures  of  her  love." 


CHAPTER  III. 
From  Isaura  Cicogna  to  Madame  de  Grantmesnil. 

THE  day  after  I  posted  my  last,  Mr.  Vane  called  on  us.  I 
was  in  our  little  garden  at  the  time.  Our  conversation  was 
brief,  and  soon  interrupted  by  visitors — the  Savarins  and  M. 
Rameau.  I  long  for  your  answer.  I  wonder  how  he  impressed 
you,  if  you  have  met  him  ;  how  he  would  impress,  if  you  met 
him  now.  To  me  he  is  so  different  from  all  others  ;  and  I 
scarcely  know  why  his  words  ring  in  my  ears,  and  his  image 
rests  in  my  thoughts.  It  is  strange  altogether  ;  for  though  he 
is  young,  he  speaks  to  me  as  if  he  were  so  much  older  than  I ; 


THE    PARISIANS.  l6l 

so  kindly,  so  tenderly,  yet  as  if  I  were  a  child,  and  much  as  the 
dear  Maestro  might  do,  if  he  thought  I  needed  caution  or 
counsel.  Do  not  fancy,  Eulalie,  that  there  is  any  danger  of 
my  deceiving  myself  as  to  the  nature  of  such  interest  as  he 
may  take  in  me.  Oh  no  !  There  is  a  gulf  between  us  there 
which  he  does  not  lose  sight  of,  and  which  we  could  not  pass. 
How,  indeed,  I  could  interest  him  at  all  I  cannot  guess.  A 
rich,  high-born  Englishman,  intent  on  political  life  ;  practical, 
prosaic — no,  not  prosaic  ;  but  still  with  the  kind  of  sense  which 
does  not  admit  into  its  range  of  vision  that  world  of  dreams 
which  is  familiar  as  their  daily  home  to  Romance  and  to  Art. 
It  has  always  seemed  to  me  that  for  love — love  such  as  I  conceive 
it — there  must  be  a  deep  and  constant  sympathy  between  two 
persons,  not,  indeed,  in  the  usual  and  ordinary  trifles  of  taste 
and  sentiment,  but  in  those  essentials  which  form  the  root  of, 
character,  and  branch  out  in  all  the  leaves  and  blooms  that  ex- 
pand to  the  sunshine  and  shrink  from  the  cold  ;  that  the  world- 
ling should  wed  the  worlding,  the  artist  the  artist.  Can  the 
realist  and  the  idealist  blend  together,  and  hold  together  till 
death  and  beyond  death  ?  If  not,  can  there  be  true  love  be- 
tween them  ?  By  true  love,  I  mean  the  love  which  interpene- 
trates the  soul,  and  once  given  can  never  die.  Oh,  Eulalie — 
answer  me — answer  ! 

P.  S. — I  have  now  fully  made  up  my  mind  to  renounce  all 
thought  of  the  stage. 

From  Madame  de  Grantmesnil  to  Isaura  Cicogna. 

MY  DEAR  CHILD  : 

How  your  mind  has  grown  since  you  left  me,  the  sanguine 
and  aspiring  votary  of  an  art  which,  of  all  arts,  brings  the  most 
immediate  reward  to  a  successful  cultivator,  and  is  in  itself  so 
divine  in  its  immediate  effects  upon  human  souls  !  Who  shall 
say  what  may  be  the  after-results  of  those  effects  which  the 
waiters  on  posterity  presume  to  despise  because  they  are  im- 
mediate? A  dull  man,  to  whose  mind  a  ray  of  that  vague  star- 
light undetected  in  the  atmosphere  of  workday  life  has  never 
yet  travelled  ;  to  whom  the  philosopher,  the  preacher,  the  poet 
appeal  in  vain — nay,  to  whom  the  conceptions  of  the  grandest 
master  of  instrumental  music  are  incomprehensible  ;  to  whom 
Beethoven  unlocks  no  portal  in  heaven  ;  to  whom  Rossini  has 
no  mysteries  on  earth  unsolved  by  the  critics  of  the  pit — sud- 
denly hears  the  human  voice  of  the  human  singer,  and  at  the 
sound  of  that  voice  the  walls  which  enclosed  him  fall.  The 
something  far  from  and  beyond  the  routine  of  his  common- 


162  THE    PARISIANS. 

place  existence  becomes  known  to  him.  He  of  himself, 
man,  can  make  nothing  of  it.  He  cannot  put  it  down  on 
paper,  and  say  the  next  morning,  "I  am  an  inch  nearer  to 
heaven  than  I  was  last  night";  but  the  feeling  that  he  is  an 
inch  nearer  to  heaven  abides  with  him.  Unconsciously  he  is 
gentler,  he  is  less  earthly,  and.  in  being  nearer  to  heaven,  he  is 
stronger  for  earth.  You  singers  do  not  seem  to  me  to  under- 
stand that  you  have — to  use  your  own  word,  so  much  in  vogue 
that  it  has  become  abused  and  trite — a  mission!  When  you 
talk  of  missions,  from  whom  comes  the  mission  ?  Not  from 
men.  If  there  be  a  mission  from  man  to  men,  it  must  be  ap- 
pointed from  on  high. 

Think  of  all  this  ;  and  in  being  faithful  to  your  art,  be  true 
to  yourself.  If  you  feel  divided  between  that  art  and  the 
heart  of  the  writer,  and  acknowledge  the  first  to  be  too  exact- 
ing to  admit  a  rival,  keep  to  that  in  which  you  are  sure  to 
excel.  Alas,  my  fair  child,  do  not  imagine  that  we  writers  feel 
a  happiness  in  our  pursuits  and  aims  more  complete  than  that 
which  you  can  command  !  If  we  care  for  fame  (and,  to  be 
frank,  we  all  do),  that  fame  does  not  come  up  before  us  face 
to  face,  a  real,  visible,  palpable  form,  as  it  does  to  the  singer, 
to  the  actress.  I  grant  that  it  may  be  more  enduring,  but  an 
endurance  on  the  length  of  which  we  dare  not  reckon.  A 
writer  cannot  be  sure  of  immortality  till  his  language  itself  be 
dead  ;  and  then  he  has  but  a  share  in  an  uncertain  lottery. 
Nothing  but  fragments  remain  of  the  Phrynichus  who  rivalled 
^schylus  ;  of  the  Agathon  who  perhaps  excelled  Euripides  ; 
of  the  Alcoeus  in  whom  Horace  acknowledged  a  master  and  a 
model  ;  their  renown  is  not  in  their  works,  it  is  but  in  their 
names.  And,  after  all,  the  names  of  singers  and  actors  last 
perhaps  as  long.  Greece  retains  the  name  of  Polus,  Rome  of 
Roscius,  England  of  Garrick,  France  of  Talma,  Italy  of  Pasta, 
more  lastingly  than  posterity  is  likely  to  retain  mine.  You 
address  to  me  a  question  which  I  have  often  put  to  myself  : 
"  What  is  the  distinction  between  the  writer  and  the  reader, 
when  the  reader  says,  4  These  are  my  thoughts,  these  are  my 
feelings  ;  the  writer  has  stolen  them,  and  clothed  them  in  his 
own  words"?  And  the  more  the  reader  says  this,  the  more 
wide  is  the  audience,  the  more  genuine  the  renown,  and,  para- 
dox though  it  seems,  the  more  consummate  the  originality  of 
the  writer.  But  no,  it  is  not  the  mere  gift  of  expression,  it  is 
not  the  mere  craft  of  the  pen,  it  is  not  the  mere  taste 
in  arrangement  of  word  and  cadence,  which  thus  en- 
ables the  one  to  interpret  the  mind,  the  heart,  the  soul  of 


THE    PARISIANS.  163 

the  many.  It  is  a  power  breathed  into  him  as  he  lay  in  his 
cradle,  and  a  power  that  gathered  around  itself,  as  he  grew  up, 
all  the  influences  he  acquired,  whether  from  observation  of 
external  Nature,  or  from  study  of  men  and  books,  or  from  that 
experience  of  daily  life  which  varies  with  every  human  being. 
No  education  could  make  two  intellects  exactly  alike,  as  no 
culture  can  make  two  leaves  exactly  alike.  How  truly  you 
describe  the  senses  of  dissatisfaction  which  every  writer  of  su- 
perior genius  communicates  to  his  admirers  !  How  truly  do 
you  feel  that  the  greater  is  the  dissatisfaction  in  proportion  to 
the  writer's  genius,  and  the  admirer's  conception  of  it  !  But 
that  is  the  mystery  which  makes — let  me  borrow  a  German 
phrase — the  cloud/and  between  the  finite  and  the  infinite.  The 
greatest  philosopher,  intent  on  the  secrets  of  Nature,  feels  that 
dissatisfaction  in  Nature  herself.  The  finite  cannot  reduce 
into  iQgic  and  criticism  the  infinite. 

Let  us  dismiss  these  matters,  which  perplex  the  reason,  and 
approach  that  which  touches  the  heart — which  in  your  case,  my 
child,  touches  the  heart  of  woman.  You  speak  of  love,  and 
deem  that  the  love  which  lasts — the  household,  the  conjugal 
love — should  be  based  upon  such  sympathies  of  pursuit  that 
the  artist  should  wed  with  the  artist. 

This  is  one  of  the  questions  you  do  well  to  address  to  me  ; 
for  whether  from  my  own  experience,  or  from  that  which  I  have 
gained  from  observation  extended  over  a  wide  range  of  life, 
and  quickened  and  intensified  by  the  class  of  writing  that  I  cul- 
tivate, and, which  necessitates  a  calm  study  of  the  passions,  I 
am  an  authority  on  such  subjects,  better  than  most  women  can 
be.  And  alas,  my  child,  I  come  to  this  result !  There  is  no 
prescribing  to  men  or  to  women  whom  to  select,  whom  to  re- 
fuse. I  cannot  refute  the  axiom  of  the  ancient  poet,  "  In  love 
there  is  no  wherefore."  But  there  is  a  time — it  is  often  but  a 
moment  of  time — in  which  love  is  not  yet  a  master,  in  which 
we  can  say  :  "  I  will  love — I  will  not  love." 

Now,  if  I  could  find  you  in  such  a  moment,  I  would  say  to 
you  :  "  Artist,  do  not  love,  do  not  marry,  an  artist."  Two  ar- 
tistic natures  rarely  combine.  The  artistic  nature  is  wonder- 
fully exacting.  I  fear  it  is  supremely  egotistical — so  jealously 
sensitive  that  it  writhes  at  the  touch  of  a  rival.  Racine  was 
the  happiest  of  husbands  ;  his  wife  adored  his  genius,  but  could 
not  understand  his  plays.  Would  Racine  have  been  happy  if 
he  had  married  a  Corneille  in  petticoats  ?  I  who  speak  have 
loved  an  artist,  certainly  equal  to  myself.  I  am  sure  that  he 
"loved  me.  That  sympathy  in  pursuits  of  which  you  speak  drew 


164  THE    PARISIANS. 

us  together,  and  became  very  soon  the  cause  o*  antipathy.  To 
both  of  us  the  endeavor  to  coalesce  was  misery. 

I  don't  know  your  M.  Rameau.  Savarin  has  sent  me  some 
of  his  writings  ;  from  these  I  judge  that  his  only  chance  of 
happiness  would  be  to  marry  a  commonplace  woman,  with  sep- 
aration de  biens.  He  is,  believe  me,  but  one  of  the  many  with 
whom  New  Paris  abounds,  who,  because  they  have  the  infirm- 
ities of  genius,  imagine  they  have  its  strength. 

I  come  next  to  the  Englishman.  I  see  how  serious  is  your 
questioning  about  him.  You  not  only  regard  him  as  a  being 
distinct  from  the  crowd  of  a  salon  ;  he  stands  equally  apart  in 
the  chamber  of  your  thoughts  ;  you  do  not  mention  him  in  tire 
same  letter  as  that  which  treats  of  Rameau  and  Savarin.  He 
has  become  already  an  image  not  to  be  lightly  mixed  up  with 
others.  You  would  rather  not  have  mentioned  him  at  all  to 
me,  but  you  could  not  resist  it.  The  interest  you  feel  in  him 
so  perplexed  you  that  in  a  kind  of  feverish  impatience  you  cry 
out  to  me,  "Can  you  solve  the  riddle?  Did  you  ever  know 
well  Englishmen  ?  Can  an  Englishman  be  understood  out  of 
his  island?"  etc.,  etc.  Yes,  I  have  known  well  many  English- 
men. In  affairs  of  the  heart  they  are  much  like  all  other  men. 
No  ;  I  do  not  know  this  Englishman  in  particular,  nor  any  one 
of  his  name. 

Well,  my  child,  let  us  frankly  grant  that  this  foreigner  has 
gained  some  hold  on  your  thoughts,  on  your  fancy,  perhaps 
also  on  your  heart.  Do  not  fear  that^he  will  love  you  less 
enduringly,  orthat  you  will  become  alienatedfrom  him,  because 
he  is  not  an  artist.  If  he  be  a  strong  nature,  and  with  some 
great  purpose  in  life,  your  ambition  will  fuse  itself  in  his  ;  and 
knowing  you  as  I  do,  I  believe  you  would  make  an  excellent 
wife  to  an  Englishman  whom  you  honored  as  well  as  loved  ; 
and  sorry  though  I  should  be  that  you  relinquished  the  singer's 
fame,  I  should  be  consoled  in  thinking  you  safe  in  the  woman's 
best  sphere — a  contented  home,  safe  from  calumny,  safe  from 
gossip.  I  never  had  that  home  ;  and  there  has  been  no  part 
in  my  author's  life  in  which  I  would  not  have  given  all  the 
celebrity  it  won  for  the  obscure  commonplace  of  such  woman 
lot.  Could  I  move  human  beings  as  pawns  on  a  chess-board, 
I  should  indeed  say  that  the  most  suitable  and  congenial  mate 
for  you,  for  a  woman  of  sentiment  and  genius,  would  be  a  well- 
born.and  well-educated  German  ;  for  such  a  German  unites, 
with  domestic  habits  and  a  strong  sense  of  family  ties,  a  romance 
of  sentiment,  a  love  of  art,  a  predisposition  towards  the  poetic 
side  of  life  which  is  very  rare  among  Englishmen  of  the  same 


THE    PARISIANS.  165 

class.  But  as  the  German  is  not  forthcoming,  I  give  my  vote 
for  the  Englishman,  provided  only  you  love  him.  Ah,  child, 
be  sure  of  that.  Do  not  mistake  fancy  for  love.  All  women 
do  not  require  love  in  marriage,  but  without  it  that  which  is 
best  and  highest  in  you  would  wither  and  die.  Write  to  me 
often  and  tell  me  all.  M.  Savarin  is  right.  My  book  is  no 
longer  my  companion.  It  is  gone  from  me,  and  I  am  once 
more  .alone  in  the  world. — Yours  affectionately. 

P.S. — Is  not  your  postscript  a  woman's  ?  Does  it  not  require 
a  woman's  postscript  in  reply  ?  You  say  in  yours  that  you  have 
fully  made  up  your  mind  to  renounce  all  thoughts  of  the  stage. 
I  ask  in  mine,  "  What  has  the  Englishman  to  do  with  that 
determination  ? " 

CHAPTER  IV. 

SOME  weeks  have  passed  since  Graham's  talk  with  Isaura  in 
the  garden  ;  he  has  not  visited  the  villa  since.  His  cousins 
the  D'Altons  have  passed  through  Paris  on  their  wav  to  Italy, 
meaning  to  stay  a  few  days  ;  they  stayed  nearly  a  month,  and 
monopolized  much  of  Graham's  companionship.  Both  these 
were  reasons  why,  in  the  habitual  society  of  the  Duke,  Gra- 
ham's persuasion  that  he  was  not  yet  free  to  court  the  hand  of 
Isaura  became  strengthened,  and  with  that  persuasion  neces- 
sariljLcame  a  question  equally  addressed  to  his  conscience. 
"  If  not  yet  free  to  court  her  hand,  am  I  free  to  expose  myself 
to  the  temptation  of  seeking  to  win  her  affection  ?"  But  when 
his  cousin  was  gone  his  heart  began  to  assert  its  own  rights,  to 
argue  its  own  case,  and  suggest  modes  of  reconciling  its  dictates 
to  the  obligations  which  seemed  to  oppose  them.  In  this  hesi- 
tating state  of  mind  he  received  the  following  note  : 

VILLA ,  LAC  D'ENGHIEN. 

MY  DEAR  MR.  VANE  : 

We  have  retreated  from  Paris  to  the  banks  of  this  beautiful 
little  lake.  Come  and  help  to  save  Frank  and  myself  from 
quarrelling  with  each  other,  which,  until  the  Rights  of  Women 
are  firmly  established,  married  folks  always  will  do  when  left 
to  themselves,  especially  if  they  are  still  lovers,  as  Frank  and 
I  are.  Love  is  a  terribly  quarrelsome  thing.  Make  us  a 
present  of  a  few  days  out  of  your  wealth  of  time.  We  will 
visit  Montmorency  and  the  haunts  of  Rousseau,  sail  on  the 
lake  at  moonlight,  dine  at  gipsy  restaurants  under  trees  not 
yet  embrowned  by  summer  heats,  discuss  literature  and  politics, 


l6<5  THE    PARISIANS. 

'  Shakspeare  and  the  musical  glasses/  and  be  as  sociable  and 
pleasant  as  Boccaccio's  tale-tellers  at  Fiesole.  We  shall  be 
but  a  small  party,  only  the  Savarins,  that  unconscious  sage  and 
humorist  Signora  Venosta,  and  that  dimple-cheeked  Isaura, 
who  embodies  the  song  of  nightingales  and  the  smile  of  sum- 
mer. Refuse,  and  Frank  shall  not  have  an  easy  moment  til* 
he  sends  in  his  claims  for  thirty  millions  against  the  Alabama. 
Yours,  as  you  behave, 

LIZZIE  MORLEY. 

Graham  did  not  refuse.  He  went  to  Enghien  for  four  day? 
and  a  quarter.  He  was  under  the  same  roof  as  Isaura.  Oh 
those  happy  days  !  So  happy  that  they  defy  description.  Bur 
though  to  Graham  the  happiest  days  he  had  ever  known,  the) 
were  happier  still  to  Isaura.  There  were  drawbacks  to  hH 
happiness,  none  to  hers  ;  drawbacks  partly  from  reasons  the 
weight  of  which  the  reader  will  estimate  later  ;  partly  from 
reasons  the  reader  may  at  once  comprehend  and  assess.  In 
the  sunshine  of  her  joy,  all  the  vivid  colorings  of  Isaura's 
artistic  temperament  came  forth,  so  that  what  I  may  call  the 
homely,  domestic  woman-side  of  her  nature  faded  into  shadow. 
If,  my  dear  reader,  whether  you  be  man  or  woman,  you  have 
come  into  familiar  contact  with  some  creature  of  a  genius  to 
which,  even  assuming  that  you  yourself  have  a  genius  in  its 
own  way,  you  have  no  special  affinities — have  you  not  felt  shy 
with  that  creature  ?  Have  you  not,  perhaps,  felt  how  intensely 
you  could  love  that  creature,  and  doubted  if  that  creature 
could  possibly  love  you  ?  Now  I  think  that  shyness  and  that 
disbelief  are  common  with  either  man  or  woman,  if,  however 
conscious  of  superiority  in  the  prose  of  life,  he  or  she  recognizes 
inferiority  in  the  poetry  of  it.  And  yet  this  self-abasement  is 
exceedingly  mistaken.  The  poetical  kind  of  genius  is  so 
grandly  indulgent,  so  inherently  deferential,  bows  with  such 
unaffected  modesty  to  the  superiority  in  which  it  fears  it  may 
fail  (yet  seldom  does  fail) — the  superiority  of  common-sense. 
And  when  we  come  to  women,  what  marvellous  truth  is  con- 
veyed by  the  woman  who  has  had  no  superior  in  intellectual 
gifts  among  her  own  sex  !  Corinne,  crowned  at  the  Capitol, 
selects  out  of  the  whole  world,  as  the  hero  of  her  love,  no  rival 
poet  and  enthusiast,  but  a  cold-blooded,  sensible  Englishman. 

Graham  Vane,. in  his  strong,  masculine  form  of  intellect, — 
Graham  Vane,  from  whom  I  hope  much,  if  he  live  to  fulfil  his 
rightful  career — had,  not  unreasonably,  the  desire  to  dominate 
the  life  of  the  woman  whom  he  selected  as  the  partner  of  his 


THE    PARISIANS.  167 

own.  But  the  life  of  Isaura  seemed  to  escape  him.  If  at 
moments,  listening  to  her,  he  would  say  to  himself,  ''  What  a 
companion  !  Life  could  never  be  dull  with  her  " — at  other 
momeats  he  would  say,  "True,  never  dull,  but  would  it  be 
always  safe  ? "  And  then  comes  in  that  mysterious  power  of  love 
which  crushes  all  beneath  its  feet,  and  makes  us  end  self-com- 
mune by  that  abject  submission  of  reason,  which  only  murmurs, 
"Better  be  unhappy  with  the  one  you  love,  than  happy  witl> 
one  whom  you  do  not."  All  such  self-communes  were  unknown 
to  Isaura.  She  lived  in  the  bliss  of  the  hour.  If  Graham 
could  have  read  her  heart,  he  would  have  dismissed  all  doubt 
whether  he  could  dominate  her  life.  Could  a  Fate  or  an  angel 
have  said  to  her  "Choose, — on  one  side  I  promise  you  the 
glories  of  a  Catalani,  a  Pasta,  a  Sappho,  a  De  Stae'l,  a  Georges 
Sand, — all  combined  into  one  immortal  name  :  or,  on  the  other 
side,  the  whole  heart  of  the  man  who  would  estrange  himself 
from  you  if  you  had  such  combination  of  glories," — her  an- 
swer would  have  brought  Graham  Vane  to  her  feet :  all  scru- 
ples, all  doubts  would  have  vanished  ;  he  would  have  exclaimed, 
with  the  generosity  inherent  in  the  higher  order  of  man  :  "Be 
glorious,  if  your  nature  wills  it  so.  Glory  enough  to  me  that 
you  would  have  resigned  glory  itself  to  become  mine."  But 
how  is  it  that  men  worth  a  woman's  loving  become  so  diffident 
when  they  love  intensely?  Even  in  ordinary  cases  of  love 
there  is  so  ineffable  a  delicacy  in  virgin  woman,  that  a  man,  be 
he  how  refined  soever,  feels  himself  rough  and  rude  and  coarse 
in  comparison.  And  while  that  sort  of  delicacy  was  pre-emi- 
nent in  this  Italian  orphan,  there  came,  to  increase  the  humility 
of  the  man  so  proud  and  so  confident  in  himself  when  he  had 
only  men  to  deal  with,  the  consciousness  that  his  intellectual 
nature  was  hard  and  positive  beside  the  angel-like  purity  and 
the  fairy-like  play  of  hers. 

There  was  a  strong  wish  on  the  part  of  Mrs.  Morley  to  bring 
about  the  union  of  these  two.  She  had  a  great  regard  and  a 
great  admiration  for  both.  To  her  mind,  unconscious  of  all 
Graham's  doubts  and  prejudices,  they  were  exactly  suited  to 
each  other.  A  man  of  intellect  so  cultivated  as  Graham's,  if 
married  to  a  commonplace  English  "Miss,"  would  surely  feel 
as  if  life  had  no  sunshine  and  no  flowers.  The  love  of  an  Isaura 
would  steep  it  in  sunshine,  pave  it  witli  flowers.  Mrs.  Morley 
admitted — all  American  Republicans  of  gentle  birth  do  admit — 
the  instincts  which  lead  "  like  "  to  match  with  "  like,"  an  equality 
of  blood  and  race.  With  all  her  assertion  of  the  Rights  of 
Woman,  I  do  not  think  that  Mrs.  Morley  would  ever  have  con- 


168  THE    PARISIANS. 

ceived  the  possibility  of  consenting  that  the  richest,  and  pret- 
tiest, and  cleverest  girl  in  the  States  could  become  the  wife  of  a 
son  of  hers  if  the  girl  had  the  taint  of  negro  blood,  even  though 
shown  nowhere  save  in  the  slight  distinguishing  hue  of  her  finger- 
nails. So,  had  Isaura's  merits  been  threefold  what  they  were, 
and  she  had  been  the  wealthy  heiress  of  a  retail  grocer,  this 
fair  Republican  would  have  opposed  (more  strongly  than  many 
an  English  duchess,  or  at  least  a  Scotch  duke  would  do,  the 
wish  of  a  son),  the  thought  of  an  alliance  between  Graham  Vane 
and  the  grocer's  daughter  !  But  Isaura  was  a  Cicogna,  an  off- 
spring of  a  very  ancient  and  very  noble  house.  Disparities  of 
fortune,  or  mere  worldly  position,  Mrs.  Morley  supremely  de- 
spised. Here  were  the  great  parities  of  alliance — parities  in 
years  and  good  looks  and  mental  culture.  So,  in  short,  she, 
in  the  invitation  given  to  them,  had  planned  for  the  union  be- 
tween Isaura  and  Graham. 

To  this  plan  she  had  an  antagonist,  whom  she  did  not  even 
guess,  in  Madame  Savarin.  That  lady,  as  much  attached  to 
Isaura  as  wa's  Mrs.  Morley  herself,  and  still  more  desirous  of 
seeing  a  girl,  brilliant  and  parentless,  transferred  from  the 
companionship  of  Signora  Venosta  to  the  protection  of  a  hus- 
band, entertained  no  belief  in  the  serious  attentions  of  Graham 
Vane.  Perhaps  she  exaggerated  his  worldly  advantages  ;  per- 
haps she  undervalued  the  warmth  of  his  affections  ;  but  it  was 
not  within  the  range  of  her  experience,  confined  much  to 
Parisian  life,  nor  in  harmony  with  her  notions  of  the  frigidity 
and  morgue  of  the  English  national  character,  that  a  rich  and 
high-born  young  man,  to  whom  a  great  career  in  practical 
public  life  was  predicted,  should  form  a  matrimonial  alliance 
with  a  foreign  orphan  girl  who,  if  of  gentle  birth,  had  no  use- 
ful connections,  would  bring  no  corresponding  dot,  and  had 
been  reared  and  intended  for  the  profession  of  the  stage.  She 
much  more  feared  that  the  result  of  any  attentions  on  the  part 
of  such  a  man  would  be  rather  calculated  to  compromise  the 
orphan's  name,  or  at  least  to  mislead  her  expectations,  than  to 
secure  her  the  shelter  of  a  wedded  home.  Moreover,  she  had 
cherished  plans  of  her  own  for  Isaura's  future.  Madame 
Savarin  had  conceived  for  Gustave  Rameau  a  friendly  regard, 
stronger  than  that  which  Mrs.  Morley  entertained  for  Graham 
Vane,  for  it  was  more  motherly.  Gustave  had  been  familiar- 
ized to  her  sight  and  her  thoughts  since  he  had  first  been 
launched  into  the  literary  world  under  her  husband's  auspices; 
he  had  confided  to  her  his  mortification  in  his  failures,  his  joy 
in  his  successes.  His  beautiful  countenance,  his  delicate 


THE    PARISIANS.  169 

health,  his  very  infirmities  and  defects,  had  endeared  him  to 
her  womanly  heart.  Isaura  was  the  wife  of  all  others  who,  in 
ftjadame  Savarin's  opinion,  was  made  for  Rameau.  Her  for- 
tune, so  trivial  beside  the  wealth  of  the  Englishman,  would  be 
a  competence  to  Rameau  ;  then  that  competence  might  swell 
into  vast  riches  if  Isaura  succeeded  on  the  stage.  She  found  with 
extreme  displeasure  that  Isaura's  mind  had  become  estranged 
from  the  profession  to  which  she  had  been  destined,  and 
divined  that  a  deference  to  the  Englishman's  prejudices  had 
something  to  do  with  that  estrangement.  It  was  not  to  be 
expected  that  a  Frenchwoman,  wife  to  a  sprightly  man  of  let- 
ters, who  had  intimate  friends  and  allies  in  every  department 
of  the  artistic  world,  should  cherish  any  prejudice  whatever 
against  the  exercise  of  an  art  in  which  success  achieved  riches 
and  renown.  But  she  was  prejudiced,  as  most  Frenchwomen 
are,  against  allowing  to  unmarried  girls  the  same  freedom  and 
independence  of  action  that  are  the  rights  of  women — French 
women — when  married.  And  she  would  have  disapproved  the 
entrance  of  Isaura  on  her  professional  career  until  she  could 
enter  it  as  a  wife — the  wife  of  an  artist,  the  wife  of  Gustave 
Rameau. 

Unaware  of  the  rivalry  between  these  friendly  diplomatists 
and  schemers,  Graham  and  Isaura  glided  hourly  more  and  more 
down  the  current,  which  as  yet  ran  smooth.  No  words  by 
which  love  is  spoken  were  exchanged  between  them  ;  in  fact, 
though  constantly  together,  they  were  very  rarely,  and  then 
but  for  moments,  alone  with  each  other.  Mrs.  Morley  artfully 
schemed  more  than  once  to  give  them  such  opportunities  for 
that  mutual  explanation  of  heart  which,  she  saw,  had  not  yet 
taken  place ;  with  art  more  practised  and  more  watchful, 
Madame  Savarin  contrived  to  baffle  her  hostess's  intention. 
But,  indeed,  neither  Graham  nor  Isaura  sought  to  make  oppor- 
tunities for  themselves.  He,  as  we  know,  did  not  deem  him- 
self wholly  justified  in  uttering  the  words  of  love  by  which  a 
man  of  honor  binds  himself  for  life  ;  and  she  !  What  girl, 
pure-hearted  and  loving  truly,  does  not  shrink  from  seeking 
the  opportunities  which  it  is  for  the  man  to  court  ?  Yet  Isaura 
needed  no  words  to  tell  her  that  she  was  loved  ;  no,  nor  even 
a  pressure  of  the  hand,  a  glance  of  the  eye  ;  she  felt  it  instinct- 
ively, mysteriously,  by  the  glow  of  her  own  being  in  the  pres- 
ence of  her  lover.  She  knew  that  she  herself  could  not  so  love 
unless  she  were  beloved. 

Here  woman's  wit  is  keener  and  truthfuller  than  man's. 
Graham,  as  I  have  said,  did  not  feel  confident  that  he  had 


170  THE    PARISIANS. 

reached  the  heart  of  Isaura :  he  was  conscious  that  he  had 
engaged  her  interest,  that  he  had  attracted  her  fancy  ;  but 
often,  when  charmed  by  the  joyous  play  of  her  imagination,  he 
would  sigh  to  himself,  "  To  natures  so  gifted  what  single  mortal 
can  be  the  all  in  all  ?  " 

They  spent  the  summer  mornings  in  excursions  round  the 
beautiful  neighborhood,  dined  early,  and  sailed  on  the  calm 
lake  at  moonlight.  Their  talk  was  such  as  might  be  expected 
from  lovers  of  books  in  summer  holidays.  Savarin  was  a  critic 
by  profession  ;  Graham  Vane,  if  not  that,  at  least  owed  such 
literary  reputation  as  he  had  yet  gained  to  essays  in  which  the 
rare  critical  faculty  was  conspicuously  developed. 

It  was  pleasant  to  hear  the  clash  of  these  two  minds  encoun- 
tering each  other;  they  differed  perhaps  less  in  opinions  than 
in  the  mode  by  which  opinions  are  discussed.  The  English- 
man's range  of  reading  was  wider  than  the  Frenchman's,  and 
his  scholarship  more  accurate  ;  but  the  Frenchman  had  a  com- 
pact neatness  of  expression,  a  light  and  nimble  grace,  whether 
in  the  advancing  or  the  retreat  of  his  argument,  which  covered 
deficiencies,  and  often  made  them  appear  like  merits.  Graham 
was  compelled,  indeed,  to  relinquish  many  of  the  forces  of 
superior  knowledge  or  graver  eloquence,  which,  with  less  lively 
antagonists,  he  could  have  brought  into  the  field,  for  the  witty 
sarcasm  of  Savarin  would  have  turned  them  aside  as  pedantry 
or  declamation.  But  though  Graham  was  neither  dry  nor 
diffuse,  and  the  happiness  at  his  heart  brought  out  the  gayety 
of  humor  which  had  been  his  early  characteristic,  and  yet 
rendered  his  familiar  intercourse  genial  and  playful,  still  there 
was  this  distinction  between  his  humor  and  Savarin's  wit,  that 
in  the  first  there  was  always  something  earnest,  in  the  last 
always  something  mocking.  And  in  criticism  Graham  seemed 
ever  anxious  to  bring  out  a  latent  beauty,  even  in  writers  com- 
paratively neglected.  Savarin  was  acutest  when  dragging  forth 
a  blemish  never  before  discovered  in  writers  universally  read. 

Graham  did  not  perhaps  notice  the  profound  attention  with 
which  Isaura  listened  to  him  in  these  intellectual  skirmishes 
with  the  more  glittering  Parisian.  There  was  this  distinction 
she  made  between  him  and  Savarin  :  when  the  last  spoke  she 
often  chimed  in  with  some  happy  sentiment  of  her  own  ;  but 
she  never  interrupted  Graham ;  never  intimated  a  dissent  from 
his  theories  of  art,  or  the  deductions  he  drew  from  them  ;  and 
she  would  remain  silent  and  thoughtful  for  some  minutes  when 
his  voice  ceased.  There  was  passing  from  his  mind  into  hers 
an  ambition  which  she  imagined,  poor  girl,  that  he  would  be 


THE    PARISIANS.  i;i 

pleased  to  think  he  had  inspired,  and  which  might  become  a 
new  bond  of  sympathy  between  them.  But  as  yet  the  ambi- 
tion was  vague  and  timid  ;  an  idea  or  a  dream  to  be  fulfilled 
in  some  indefinite  future.. 

The  last  night  of  this  short-lived  holiday  time,  the  party, 
after  staying  out  on  the  lake  toji  later  hour  than  usual,  stood 
lingering  still  on  the  lawn  of  the  villa  ;  and  their  host,  who  was 
rather  addicted  to  superficial  studies  of  the  positive  sciences, 
including,  of  course,  the  most  popular  of  all,  astronomy,  kept 
his  guests  politely  listening  to  speculative  conjectures  on 
probable  size  of  the  inhabitants  of  Sirius,  that  very  distant  and 
very  gigantic  inhabitant  of  heaven  who  has  led  philosophers 
into  mortifying  reflections  upon  the  utter  insignificance  of 
our  own  poor  little  planet,  capable  of  producing  nothing  greater 
than  Shakspeares  and  New-tons,  Aristotles  and  Caesars,  mani- 
kins, no  doubt,  beside  intellects  proportioned  to  the  size  of  the 
world  in  which  they  flourish. 

As  it  chanced,  Isaura  and  Graham  were  then  standing  close 
to  each  other  and  a  little  apart  from  the  rest.  "  It  is  very 
strange,"  said  Graham,  laughing  low,  "  how  little  I  care  about 
Sirius.  He  is  the  sun  of  some  other  system,  and  is  perhaps  not 
habitable  at  all,  except  by  salamanders.  He  cannot  be  one  of 
the  stars  with  which  I  have  established  familiar  acquaintance, 
associated  with  fancies  and  dreams  and  hopes,  as  most  of  us  do, 
for  instance,  with  Hesperus,  the  moon's  harbinger  and  comrade. 
But  amid  all  those  stars  there  is  one — not  Hesperus — which 
has  always  had,  from  my  childhood,  a  mysterious  fascination 
for  me.  Knowing  as  little  of  astrology  as  I  do  of  astronomy, 
when  I  gaze  upon  that  star  I  become  credulously  superstitious, 
and  fancy  it  has  an  influence  on  my  life.  Have  you,  too,  any 
favorite  star?" 

"Yes,"  said  Isaura  ;  "and  I  distinguish  it  now,  but  I  do  not 
even  know  its  name,  and  never  would  ask  it." 

"  So  like  me.  I  would  not  vulgarize  my  unknown  source  of 
beautiful  illusions  by  giving  it  the  name  it  takes  in  technical 
catalogues.  For  fear  of  learning  that  name  I  never  have 
pointed  it  out  to  any  one  before.  I  too  at  this  moment  dis- 
tinguish it  apart  from  all  its  brotherhood.  Tell  me  which  is 
yours." 

Isaura  pointed  and  explained.  The  Englishman  was  startled. 
By  what  strange  coincidence  could  they  both  have  singled  out 
from  all  the  host  of  heaven  the  same  favorite  star  ? 

"  Cher  Vane,"  cried  Savarin,  "  Colonel  Morley  declares  that 
what  America  is  to  the  terrestrial  system  Sirius  is  to  the 


172  THE    PARISIANS. 

heavenly.  America  is  to  extinguish  Europe,  and  then  Sirius 
is  to  extinguish  the  world." 

"Not  for  some  millions  of  years  ;  time  to  look  about  us," 
said  the  Colonel  gravely.  "  But  I  certainly  differ  from  those 
who  maintain  that  Sirius  recedes  from  us.  I  say  that  he  ap- 
proaches. The  principles  of  a  body  so  enlightened  must  be 
those  of  progress."  Then  addressing  Graham  in  English,  he 
added,  "  There  will  be  a  mulling  in  this  fogified  planet  some 
day,  I  predicate.  Sirius  is  a  keener  !  " 

"I  have  not  imagination  lively  enough  to  interest  myself  in 
the  destinies  of  Sirius  in  connection  with  our  planet  at  a  date 
so  remote,"  said  Graham,  smiling.  Then  he  added  in  a  whis- 
per to  Isaura  :  "  My  imagination  does  not  carry  me  farther 
than  to  wonder  whether  this  day  twelvemonth — the  8th  of 
July — we  two  shall  both  be  singling  out  that  same  star,  and 
gazing  on  it  as  now,  side  by  side." 

This  was  the  sole  utterance  of  that  sentiment  in  which  the 
romance  of  love  is  so  rich  that  the  Englishman  addressed  to 
Isaura  during  those  memorable  summer  days  at  Enghien. 


CHAPTER  V. 

THE  next  morning  the  party  broke  up.  Letters  had  been 
delivered  both  to  Savarin  and  to  Graham,  which,  even  had  the 
day  fof  departure  not  been  fixed,  would  have  summoned  them 
away.  On  reading  his  letter,  Savarin's  brow  became  clouded. 
He  made  a  sign  to  his  wife  after  breakfast,  and  wandered  away 
with  her  down  an  alley  in  the  little  garden.  His  trouble  was 
of  that  nature  which  a  wife  either  soothes  or  aggravates,  accord- 
ing sometimes  to  her  habitual  frame  of  mind,  sometimes  to  the 
mood  of  temper  in  which  she  may  chance  to  be — a  household 
trouble,  a  pecuniary  trouble. 

Savarin  was  by  no  means  an  extravagant  man.  His  mode 
of  living,  though  elegant  and  hospitable,  was  modest  compared 
to  that  of  many  French  authors  inferior  to  himself  in  the  fame 
which  at  Paris  brings  a  very  good  return  in  francs.  But  his 
station  itself  as  the  head  of  a  powerful  literary  clique  necessi- 
tated many  expenses  which  were  too  congenial  to  his  extreme 
good-nature  to  be  regulated  by  strict  prudence.  His  hand  was 
always  open  to  distressed  writers  and  struggling  artists,  and  his 
sole  income  was  derived  from  his  pen  and  a  journal  in  which 
he  was  chief  editor  and  formerly  sole  proprietor.  But  that 
journal  had  of  late  not  prospered.  He  had  sold  or  pledged  a 


THE    PARISIANS.  173 

Considerable  share  in  the  proprietorship.  He  had  been  com- 
pelled also  to  borrow  a  sum  large  for  him,  and  the  debt  ob- 
tained from  a  retired  bourgeois  who  lent  out  his  moneys,  "  by 
way,"  he  said,  "  of  maintaining  an  excitement  and  interest  in 
life,"  would  in  a  few  days  become  due.  The  letter  was  tfot 
from  that  creditor,  but  it  was  from  his  publisher,  containing  a 
very  disagreeable  statement  of  accounts,  pressing  for  settlement, 
and  declining  an  offer  of  Savarin's  for  a  new  book  (not  yet  be- 
gun) except  upon  terms  that  the  author  valued  himself  too 
highly  to  accept.  Altogether,  the  situation  was  unpleasant. 
There  were  many  times  in  which  Madame  Savarin  presumed  to 
scold  her  distinguished  husband  for  his  want  of  prudence  and 
thrift.  But  those  were  never  the  times  when  scolding  could  be 
of  no  use.  It  would  clearly  be  of  no  use  now.  Now  was  the 
moment  to  cheer  and  encourage  him,  to  reassure  him  as  to  his 
own  undiminished  powers  and  popularity,  for  he  talked  deject- 
edly of  himself  as  obsolete  and  passing  out  of  fashion  ;  to  con- 
vince him  also  of  the  impossibility  that  the  ungrateful  publisher 
whom  Savarin's  more  brilliant  successes  had  enriched  could 
encounter  the  odium  of  hostile  proceedings ;  and  to  remind 
him  of  all  the  authors,  all  the  artists,  whom  he,  in  their  earlier 
difficulties,  had  so  liberally  assisted,  and  from  whom  a  sum  suf- 
ficing to  pay  off  the  bourgeois  creditor  when  the  day  arrived 
could  now  be  honorably  asked  and  would  be  readily  contributed. 
In  this  last  suggestion  the  homely,  prudent  good  sense  of  Ma- 
dame Savarin  failed  her.  She  did  not  comprehend  that  deli- 
cate pride  of  honor  which',  with  all  his  Parisian  frivolities  and 
cynicism,  dignified  the  Parisian  man  of  genius.  Savarin  could 
not,  to  save  his  neck  from  a-rope,  have  sent  round  the  begging- 
hat  to  friends  whom  he  had  obliged.  Madame  Savarin  was  one 
of  those  women  with  large-lobed  ears,  who  can  be  wonderfully 
affectionate,  wonderfully  sensible,  admirable  wives  and  mothers, 
and  yet  are  deficient  in  artistic  sympathies  with  artistic  natures. 
Still,  a  really  good  honest  wife  is  such  an  incalculable  bless- 
ing to  her  lord,  that,  at  the  end  of  the  talk  in  the  solitary  alle'e, 
this  man  of  exquisite  •  finesse,  of  the  undefinably  high-bred 
temperament,  and,  alas  !  the  painfully  morbid  susceptibility, 
which  belong  to  the  genuine  artistic  character,  emerged 
into  the  open  sunlit  lawn  with  his  crest  uplifted,  his  lip 
curled  upward  in  its  joyous  mockery,  and  perfectly  persuaded 
that  somehow  or  other  he  should  put  down  the  offensive  pub- 
lisher, and  pay  off  the  unoffending  creditor  when  the  day 
for  payment  came.  Still  he  had  judgment  enough  to  know 
that  to  do  this  he  must  get  back  to  Paris,  and  could  not 


174  THE    PARISIANS, 

dawdle  away  precious  hours  in  discussing  the  principles  of 
poetry  with  Graham  Vane. 

There  was  only  one  thing,  apart  from  "  the  begging-hat,"  in 
which  Savarin  dissented  from  his  wife.  She  suggested  his 
starting  a  new  journal  in  conjunction  with  Gustave  Rameau, 
upon  whose  genius  and  the  expectations  to  be  formed  from  it 
(here  she  was  tacitly  thinking  of  Isaura  wedded  to  Rameau, 
and  more  than  a  Malibran  on  the  stage)  she  insisted  vehemently. 
Savarin  did  not  thus  estimate  Gustave  Rameau  :  thought  him 
a  clever,  promising  young  writer  in  a  very  bad  school  of  writing, 
who  might  do  well  some  day  or  other.  But  that  a  Rameau 
could  help  a  Savarin  to  make  a  fortune !  No  ;  at  that  idea  he 
opened  his  eyes,  patted  his  wife's  shoulder,  and  called  her 
"enfant." 

Graham's  letter  was  from  M.  Renard,  and  ran  thus : 

"  MONSIEUR  : 

"  I  had  the  honor  to  call  at  your  apartment  this  morning,  and 
I  write  this  line  to  the  address  given  to  me  by  your  concierge  to 
say  that  I  have  been  fortunate  enough  to  ascertain  that  the  re- 
lation of  the  missing  lady  is  now  at  Paris.  I  shall  hold  myself 
in  readiness  to  attend  your  summons.  Deign  to  accept,  Mon- 
sieur, the  assurance  of  my  profound  consideration. 

"J.  RENARD." 

This  communication  sufficed  to  put  Graham  into  very  high 
spirits.  Anything  that  promised  success  to  his  research  seemed 
to  deliver  his  thoughts  from  a  burthen  and  his  will  from  a  fet- 
ter. Perhaps  in  a  few  days  he  might  frankly  and  honorably 
say  to  Isaura  words  which  would  justify  his  retaining  longer, 
and  pressing  more  ardently,  the  delicate  hand  which  trembled 
in  his  as  they  took  leave. 

On  arriving  at  Paris,  Graham  despatched  a  note  to  M. 
Renard  requesting  to  see  him,  and  received  a  brief  line  in  re- 
ply that  M.  Renard  feared  he  should  be  detained  on  other  and 
important  business  till  the  evening,  but  hoped  to  call  at  eight 
o'clock.  A  few  minutes  before  that  hour  he  entered  Graham's 
apartment. 

"  You  have  discovered  the  uncle  of  Louise  Duval !  "  ex- 
claimed Graham  ;  "  of  course  you  mean  M.  de  Mauleon,  and 
he  is  at  Paris?" 

"  True  so  far,  Monsieur  ;  but  do  not  be  too  sanguine  as  to 
the  results  of  the  information  I  can  give  you.  Permit  me,  as 
briefly  as  possible,  to  state  the  circumstances.  When  you  ac- 


THE  PARISIANS.  175 

quuinted  me  with  the  fact  that  M.  cle  Mauleon  was  the  uncle 
of  Louise  Duval,  I  told  you  that  1  was  not  without  hopes  of 
finding  him  out,  though  so  long  absent  from  Paris.  I  will  now 
explain  why.  Some  months  ago,  one  of  my  colleagues  engaged 
in  the  political  department  (which  I  am  not)  was  sent  to  Lyons, 
in  consequence  of  some  suspicions  conceived  by  the  loyal  au- 
thorities there  of  a  plot  against  the  Emperor's  life.  The  sus- 
picions were  groundless,  the  plot  a  mare's  nest.  But  my  col- 
league's attention  was  especially  drawn  towards  a  man,  not 
mixed  up  with  the  circumstances  from  which  a  plot  had  been 
inferred,  but  deemed  in  some  way  or  other  a  dangerous  enemy 
to  the  government.  Ostensibly  he  exercised  a  modest  and 
small  calling  as  a  sort  of  courtier  or  agent  d'affaires;  but  it  was 
noticed  that  certain  persons  familiarly  frequenting  his  apart- 
ment, or  to  whose  houses  he  used  logo  at  night,  were  disaffected 
to  the  government — not  by  any  means  of  the  lowest  rank — 
some  of  them  rich  malcontents  who  had  been  devoted  Orlean- 
ists  ;  others,  disappointed  aspirants  to  office  or  the  "cross"; 
one  or  two  well-born  and  opulent  fanatics  dreaming  of  another 
Republic.  Certain  very  able  articles  in  the  journals  of  the  ex- 
citable Midi,  though  bearing  another  signature,  were  composed 
or  dictated  by  this  man — articles  evading  the  censure  and 
penalties  of  the  law,  but  very  mischievous  in  their  tone.  All 
who  had  come  into  familiar  communication  with  this  person 
were  impressed  with  a  sense  of  his  powers  ;  and  also  with  a 
vague  belief  that  he  belonged  to  a  higher  class  in  breeding  and 
education  than  that  of  a  petty  agent  d'affaires.  My  colleague 
set  himself  to  watch  the  man,  and  took  occasions  of  business 
at  his  little  office  to  enter  into  talk  with  him.  Not  by  personal 
appearance,  but  by  voice,  he  came  to  a  conclusion  that  the  man 
was  not  wholly  a  stranger  to  him  ;  a  peculiar  voice  with  a  slight 
Norman  breath  of  pronunciation,  though  a  Parisian  accent,  a 
voice  very  low  yet  very  distinct,  very  masculine  yet  very  gen- 
tle. My  colleague  was  puzzled,  till  late  one  evening  he  ob- 
served the  man  coming  out  of  the  house  of  one  of  these  rich 
malcontents,  the  rich  malcontent  himself  accompanying  him. 
My  colleague,  availing  himself  of  the  dimness  of  light,  as  the 
two  passed  into  a  lane  which  led  to  the  agent's  apartment,  con- 
trived to  keep  close  behind  and  listen  to  their  conversation. 
But  of  this  he  heard  nothing  ;  only,  when  at  the  end  of  the 
lane,  the  rich  man  turned  abruptly,  shook  his  companion 
warmly  by  the  hand,  and  parted  from  him,  saying,  '  Never  fear  ; 
all  shall  go  right  with  you,  my  dear  Victor.'  At  the  sound  of 
that  name  '  Victor,'  my  colleague's  memories,  before  so  con- 


fjG  THE   PARISIANS. 

fused,  became  instantaneously  clear.  Previous  to  entering  our 
service,  he  had  been  in  the  horse  business — a  votary  of  the  turf  ; 
as  such  he  had  often  seen  the  brilliant  '  sportman,'  Victor  de 
Mauleon  ;  sometimes  talked  to  him.  Yes,  that  was  the  voice  ; 
the  slight  Norman  intonation  (Victor  de  Mauleon's  father  had 
it  strongly,  and  Victor  had  passed  some  of  his  early  childhood 
in  Normandy),  the  subdued  modulation  of  speech  which  had 
made  so  polite  the  offence  to  men,  or  so  winning  the  courtship 
to  women  ;  that  was  Victor  de  Mauleon.  But  why  there  in  that 
disguise?  What  was  his  real  business  and  object?  My  con- 
frbre  had  no  time  allowed  to  him  to  prosecute  such  inquiries. 
Whether  Victor  or  the  rich  malcontent  had  observed  him  at 
their  heels,  and  feared  he  might  have  overheard  their  words,  I 
know  not,  but  the  next  day  appeared  in  one  of  the  popular 
journals  circulating  among  the  ouvriers,  a  paragraph  stating 
that  a  Paris  spy  had  been  seen  at  Lyons,  warning  all  honest 
men  against  his  machinations,  and  containing  a  tolerably  accu- 
rate description  of  his  person.  And  that  very  day,  on  ventur- 
ing forth,  my  estimable  colleague  suddenly  found  himself 
hustled  by  a  ferocious  throng,  from  whose  hands  he  was  with 
great  difficulty  rescued  by  the  municipal  guard.  He  left  Lyons 
that  night  ;  and  for  recompense  of  his  services  received  a  sharp 
reprimand  from  his  chief.  He  had  committed  the  worst  offence 
in  our  profession,  trop  de  zele.  Having  only  heard  the  outlines 
of  this  story  from  another,  I  repaired  to  my  confrere  after  my  last 
interview  with  Monsieur,  and  learned  what  I  now  tell  you  from 
his  own  lips.  As  he  was  not  in  my  branch  of  the  service,  I  could 
not  order  him  to  return  to  Lyons  ;  and  I  doubt  whether  his  chief 
would  have  allowed  it.  But  I  went  to  Lyons  myself,  and  there  as- 
certained that  our  supposed  Vicomte  had  left  that  town  for  Paris 
some  months  ago,  not  long  after  the  adventure  of  my  colleague. 
The  man  bore  a  very  good  character  generally ;  was  said  to  be 
very  honest  and  inoffensive  ;  and  the  notice  taken  of  him  by 
persons  of  higher  rank*  was  attributed  generally  to  a  respect  for 
his  talents,  and  not  on  account  of  any  sympathy  in  political 
opinions.  I  found  that*  the  confrere  mentioned,  and  who  alone 
could  identify  M.  de  Mauleon  in  the  disguise  which  the  Vicomte 
had  assumed,  was  absent  on  one  of  those  missions  abroad  in 
which  he  is  chiefly  employed.  I  had  to  wait  for  his  return,  and 
it  was  only  the  day  before  yesterday  that  I  obtained  the  fol- 
lowing particulars  :  M.  de  Mauleon  bears  the  same  name  as  he 
did  at  Lyons — that  name  is  Jean  Lebeau  ;  he  exercises  the 
ostensible  profession  of  a  '  letter-writer,'  and  a  sort  of  adviser 
on  business  among  the  workmen  and  petty  bourgeoisie,  and  he 


THE    PARISIANS.  177 

nightly  frequents  the  Cafe  Jean  Jacques,  Rue  — — ,  Faubourg 
Montmartre.  It  is  not  yet  quite  half-past  eight,  and  no  doubt 
you  could  see. him  at-the  cafe"  this  very  night,  if  you  thought 
proper  to  go." 

"  Excellent  !     I  will  go  !     Describe  him  !  " 

"  Alas  !  that  is  exactly  what  I  cannot  do  at  present.  For  after 
hearing  what  I  now  tell  you,  I  put  the  same  request  you 
do  to  my  colleague,  when,  before  he  could  answer  me,  he  was 
summoned  to  the  bureau  of  his  chief,  promising  to  return  and 
give  me  the  requisite  description.  He  did  not  return.  And  I 
find  that  he  was  compelled,  on  quitting  his  chief,  to  seize  the 
first  train  starting  for  Lille  upon  an  important  political  in- 
vestigation which  brooked  no  delay.  He  will  be  back  in  a  few 
days,  and  then  Monsieur  shall  have  the  description." 

"  Nay  ;  I  think  I  will  seize  time  by  the  forelock,  and  try 
my  chance  to-night.  If  the  man  be  really  a  conspirator,  and 
it  looks  likely  enough,  who  knows  but  what  he  may  see  quick 
reason  to  take  alarm  and  vanish  from  Paris  at  any  hour  ?  Cafe 

Jean  Jacques,  Rue .  I  will  go.  Stay  ;  you  have  seen 

Victor  de  Maule'on  in  his  youth  :  what  was  he  like  then?" 

"  Tall,  slender,  but  broad-shouldered  ;  very  erect — carrying 
his  head  high;  a  profusion  of  dark  curls,  a  small,  black  mous- 
tache ;  fair,  clear  complexion,  light-colored  eyes  with  dark 
lashes — fort  bel  homme.  But  he  will  not  look  like  that  now." 

"  His  present  age  ?  " 

"  Forty-seven  or  forty-eight.  But  before  you  go  I  must  beg 
you  to  consider  well  what  you  are  about.  It  is  evident  that 
M.  de  Mauleon  has  some  strong  reason,  whatever  it  be,  for 
merging  his  identity  in  that  of  Jean  Lebeau.  I  presume, 
therefore,  that  you  could  scarcely  go  up  to  M.  Lebeau,  when 
you  have  discovered  him,  and  say  :  '  Pray,  M.  le  Vicomte,  can 
you  give  me  some  tidings  of  your  niece,  Louise  Duval  ? '  If 
you  thus  accosted  him,  you  might  possibly  bring  some  danger 
on  yourself,  but  you  would  certainly  gain  no  information  from 
him." 

;'  True." 

"  On  the  other  hand,  if  you  make  his  acquaintance  as  M. 
Lebeau,  how  can  you  assume  him  to  know  anything  about 
Louise  Duval?" 

"  Par 'bleu !  M.  Renard,  you  try  to.  toss  me  aside  on  both 
horns  of  the  dilemma  ;  but  it  seems  to  me  that,  if  I  once  make 
his  acquaintance  as  M.  Lebeau,  I  might  gradually  and  cau- 
tiously feel  my  way  as  to  the  best  mode  of  putting  the  question 
to  which  I  seek  reply.  I  suppose,  too,  that  the  man  must  be 


178  THE    PARISIANS. 

in  very  poor  circumstances  to  adopt  so  humble  a  calling,  and 
that  a  small  sum  of  money  may  smooth  all  difficulties.  " 

"I  am  not  so  sure  of  that,"  said  M.  Renard  thoughtfully  ; 
"but  grant  that  money  may  do  so,  and  grant  also  that  the  Vi- 
comte,  being  a  needy  man,  has  become  a  very  unscrupulous 
one,  is  there  anything  in  your  motives  for  discovering  Louise 
Duval  which  might  occasion  you  trouble  and  annoyance,  if  it 
were  divined  by  a  needy  and  unscrupulous  man  ? — anything 
which  might  give  him  a  power  of  threat  or  exaction?  Mfnd,  I 
am  not  asking  you  to  tell  me  any  secret  you  have  reasons  for 
concealing,  but  I  suggest  that  it  might  be  prudent  if  you  did 
not  let  M.  Lebeau  know  your  real  name  and  rank ;  if,  in  short, 
you  could  follow  his  example,  and  adopt  a  disguise.  But  no  ; 
when  I  think  of  it,  you  would  doubtless  be  so  unpractised  in 
the  art  of  disguise,  that  he  would  detect  you  at  once  to  be 
other  than  you  seem  ;  and  if  suspecting  you  of  spying  into  his 
secrets,  and  if  those  secrets  be  really  of  a  political  nature,  your 
very  life  might  not  be  safe." 

"Thank  you  for  your  hint ;  the  disguise  is  an  excellent  idea, 
and  combines  amusement  with  precaution.  That  this  Victor 
de  Mauleon  must  be  a  very  unprincipled  and  dangerous  man 
is,  I  think,  abundantly  clear.  Granting  that  he  was  innocent 
of  all  design  of  robbery  in  the  affair  of  the  jewels,  still,  the  of- 
fence which  he  did  own — that  of  admitting  himself  at  night  by 
a  false  key  into  the  rooms  of  a  wife  whom  he  sought  to  surprise 
or  terrify  into  dishonor — was  a  villanous  action  ;  and  his  pres- 
ent course  of  life  is  sufficiently  mysterious  to  warrant  the  most 
unfavorable  supposition.  Be'sides,  there  is  another  motive  for 
concealing  my  name  from  him  :  you  say  that  he  once  had  a 
duel  with  a  Varie,  who  was  very  probably  my  father,  and  I 
have  no  wish  to  expose  myself  to  the  chance  of  his  turning  up 
in  London  some  day,  and  seeking  to  renew  there  the  acquaint- 
ance that  I  had  courted  at  Paris.  As  for  my  skill  in  playing 
any  part  I  may  assume,  do  not  fear ;  I  am  no  novice  in  that. 
In  my  younger  days  I  was  thought  clever  in  private  theatri- 
cals, especially  in  the  transformations  of  appearance  which  be- 
long to  light  comedy  and  farce.  Wait  a  few  minutes  and  you 
shall  see." 

Graham  then  retreated  into  his  bedroom,  and  in  a  few  min- 
utes reappeared,  so  changed  that  Renard  at  first  glance  took 
him  for  a  stranger,  He  had  doffed  his  dress,  which  habitu- 
ally, when  in  capitals,  was  characterized  by  the  quiet,  indefin- 
able elegance  that  to  a  man  of  the  great  world,  high-bred  and 
young,  seems  "  to  the  manner  born,"  for  one  of  those  coarse 


THE    PAklSlANS,  179 

Suits  which  Englishmen  are  wont  to  wear  in  their  travels,  and 
by  which  they  are  represented  in  French  or  German  carica- 
tures ;  loose  jacket  of  tweed,  with  redundant  pockets,  waist- 
coat to  match,  short  dust-colored  trousers.  He  had  combed 
his  hair  straight  over  his  forehead,  which,  as  I  have  said  some- 
where before,  appeared  in  itself  .  to  alter  the  character  of  his 
countenance,  and,  without  any  resort  to  paints  or  cosmetics, 
had  somehow  or  other  given  to  the  expression  of  his  face  an 
impudent,  low-bred  expression,  with  a  glass  screwed  on  to  his 
right  eye — such  a  look  as  a  cockney  journeyman,  wishing  to 
pass  for  a  "swell"  about  town,  may  cast  on  a  servant-maid  in 
the  pit  of  a  surburban  theatre. 

"Will  it  do,  old  fellow?"  he  exclaimed,  in  a  rollicking, 
swaggering  tone  of  voice,  speaking  French  with  a  villanous 
British  accent. 

"  Perfectly,"  said  Renard,  laughing.  "  I  offer  my  compli- 
ments, and  if  ever  you  are  ruined,  Monsieur,  I  will  promise 
you  a  place  in  our  police.  Only  one  caution — take  care  not  to 
overdo  your  part." 

"  Right.     A  quarter  to  nine — I'm  off." 

CHAPTER  VI. 

THERE  is  a  general  brisk  exhilaration  of  spirits  in  the  return 
to  any  special  amusement  or  light  accomplishment,  associated 
with  the  pleasant  memories  of  earlier  youth  ;  and  remarkably 
so,  I  believe,  when  the  amusement  or  accomplishment  has  been 
that  of  the  amateur  stage-player.  Certainly  I  have  known 
persons  of  very  grave  pursuits,  of  very  dignified  character  and 
position,  who  seem  to  regain  the  vivacity  of  boyhood  when  dis- 
guising look  and  voice  for  a  part  in  some  drawing-room 
comedy  or  charade.  I  might  name  statesmen  of  solemn  repute 
rejoicing*  to  raise  and  to  join  in  a  laugh  at  their  expense  in 
such  travesty  of  their  habitual  selves. 

The  reader  must  not  therefore  be  surprised,  nor,  I  trust, 
deem  it  inconsistent  with  the  more  serious  attributes  of 
Graham's  character,  if  the  Englishman  felt  the  sort  of  joyous 
excitement  I  describe,  as,  in  his  way  to  the  Cafe  Jean  Jacques, 
he  meditated  the  role  he  had  undertaken  ;  and  the  joyousness 
was  heightened  beyond  the  mere  holiday  sense  of  humoristic 
pleasantry  by  the  sanguine  hope  that  much  to  effect  his  lasting 
happiness  might  result  from  the  success  of  the  object  for  which 
his  disguise  was  assumed. 

It  was  just  twenty  minutes  past  nine  when  he  arrived  at  the 


180  THE   PARISIANS. 

Cafe  Jean  Jacques.  He  dismissed  the  fiacre  and  entered. 
The  apartment  devoted  to  customers  comprised  two  large 
rooms.  The  first  was  the  cafe  properly  speaking  ;  the  second, 
opening  on  it,  was  the  billiard-room.  Conjecturing  that  he 
should  probably  find  the  person  of  whom  he  was  in  quest  em- 
ployed at  the  billiard-table,  Graham  passed  thither  at  once.  A 
tall  man,  who  might  be  seven-and-forty,  with  a  long  black 
beard,  slightly  grizzled,  was  at  play  with  a  young  man  of  per- 
haps twenty-eight,  who  gave  him  odds — as  better  players  of 
twenty-eight  ought  to  give  odds  to  a  player,  though  originally 
of  equal  force,  whose  eye  is  not  so  quick,  whose  hand  is  not  so 
steady,  as  they  were  twenty  years  ago.  Said  Graham  to  himself : 
"  The  bearded  man  is  my  Vicomte."  He  called  for  a  cup  of 
coffee,  and  seated  himself  on  a  bench  at  the  end  of  the  room. 

The  bearded  man  was  far  behind  in  the  game.  It  was  his 
turn  to  play  ;  the  balls  were  placed  in  the  most  awkward  posi- 
tion for  him.  Graham  himself  was  a  fair  billiard  player,  both 
in  the  English  and  the  French  game.  He  said  to  himself  :  "  No 
man  who  can  make  a  cannon  there  should  accept  odds."  The 
bearded  man  made  a  cannon  ;  the  bearded  man  continued  to 
make  cannons  ;  the  bearded  man  did  not  stop  till  he  had  won 
the  game.  The  gallery  of  spectators  was  enthusiastic.  Taking 
care  to  speak  in  very  bad,  very  English,  French,  Graham  ex- 
pressed to  one  of  the  enthusiasts  seated  beside  him  his  admi- 
ration of  the  bearded  man's  playing,  and  ventured  to  ask  if  the 
bearded  man  were  a  professional  or  an  amateur  player. 

"Monsieur,"  replied  the  enthusiast,  taking  a  short  cutty-pipe 
from  his  mouth,  "  it  is  an  amateur,  who  has  been  a  great 
player  in  his  day,  and  is  so  proud  that  he  always  takes  less 
odds  than  he  ought  of  a  younger  man.  It  is  not  once  in  a 
month  that  he  comes  out  as  he  has  done  to-night  ;  but  to-night 
he  has  steadied  his  hand.  He  has  had  six  petits  verres." 

"Ah,  indeed  !     Do  you  know  his  name  ?  " 

"  I  should  think  so  :  he  burred  my  father,  my  two  aunts,  and 
my  wife." 

"Buried?"  said  Graham,  more  and  more  British  in  his 
accent  ;  "  I  don't  understand." 

"Monsieur,  you  are  English." 

"I  confess  it." 

"And  a  stranger  to  the  Faubourg  Montmartre." 

"  True." 

"  Or  you  would  have  heard  of  M.  Giraud,  the  liveliest  mem- 
ber of  the  State  Company  for  conducting  funerals.  They  are 
going  to  play  La  Poule" 


THE    PARISIANS.  l8l 

Much  disconcerted,  Graham  retreated  into  the  cafe,  and 
seated  himself  haphazard  at  one  of  the  small  tables.  Glancing 
round  the  room,  lie  saw  no  one  in  whom  he  could  conjecture 
the  once  brilliant  Vicomte. 

The  company  appeared  to  him  sufficently  decent,  and 
especially  what  may  be  called  local.  There  were  some  blouses 
drinking  wine,  no  doubt  of  the  cheapest  and  thinnest  ;  some 
in  rough,  coarse  dresses,  drinking  beer.  These  were  evidently 
English,  Belgian,  or  German  artisans.  At  one  table,  four 
young  men,  who  looked  like  small  journeymen,  were  playing 
cards.  At  three  other  tables,  men  older,  better  dressed,  prob- 
ably shopkeepers,  were  playing  dominoes.  Graham  scrutinized 
tiiese  last,  but  among  them  all  could  detect  no  one  correspond- 
ing to  his  ideal  of  the  Vicomte  de  Mauleon.  "Probably," 
thought  he,  "  I  am  too  late,  or  perhaps  he  will  not  be  here 
this  evening.  At  all  events,  I  will  wait  a  quarter  of  an  hour." 
Then  t\\e  garfon  approaching  his  table,  he  deemed  it  necessary 
to  call  for  something,  and,  still  in  strong  English  accent, 
asked  for  lemonade  and  an  evening  journal.  The  garfon 
nodded  and  went  his  way.  A  monsieur  at  the  round  table 
next  his  own  politely  handed  to  him  the  "Galignani,"  saying 
in  very  good  English,  though  unmistakably  the  good  English 
of  a  Frenchman,  "  The  English  journal  at  your  service." 

Graham  bowed  his  head,  accepted  the  "  Galignani,"  and  in- 
spected his  courteous  neighbor.  A  more  respectable-looking 
man  no  Englishman  could  see  in  an  English  country  town. 
He  wore  an  unpretending  flaxen  wig,  with  limp  whiskers  that 
met  at  the  chin,  and  might  originally  have  been  the  same  color 
as  the  wig,  but  were  now  of  a  pale  gray — no  beard,  no  mous- 
tache. He  was  dressed  with  the  scrupulous  cleanliness  of  a 
sober  citizen  ;  a  high,  white  neckcloth,  with  a  large,  old-fash- 
ioned pin,  containing  a  little  knot  of  hair,  covered  with  glass 
or  crystal,  and  bordered  with  a  black  framework,  in  which 
were  inscribed  letters — evidently  a  mourning  pin,  hallowed  to 
the  memory  of  lost  spouse  or  child — a  man,  who,  in  England, 
might  be  the  mayor  of  a  cathedral  town,  at  least  the  town- 
clerk.  He  seemed  suffering  from  some  infirmity  of  vision,  for 
he  wore  green  spectacles.  The  expression  of  his  face  was 
very  mild  and  gentle  ;  apparently  he  was  about  sixty  years 
old — somewhat  more. 

Graham  took  kindly  to  his  neighbor,  insomuch  that,  in  return 
for  the  "  Galignani,"  he  offered  him  a  cigar,  lighting  one  him- 
. 

His  neighbor  refused  politely. 


182  THE    PARISIANS. 

"  Merei!  I  never  "smoke — never  ;  man  mcdccin  forbids  it.  If 
I  could  be  tempted,  it  would  be  by  an  English  cigar.  Ah, 
how  you  English  beat  us  in  all  things — your  ships,  your  iron, 
your  tabac  ;  which  you  do  not  grow  !  " 

This  speech,  rendered  literally  as  we  now  render  it,  may 
give  the  idea  of  a  somewhat  vulgar  speaker.  But  there  was 
something  in  the  man's  manner,  in  his  smile,  in  his  courtesy, 
which  did  not  strike  Graham  as  vulgar  ;  on  the  contrary,  he 
thought  within  himself:  "How  instinctive  to  all  Frenchmen 
good  breeding  is  !  " 

Before,  however,  Graham  had  time  to  explain  to  his  amiable 
neighbor  the  politico-economical  principle  according  to  which 
England,  growing  no  tobacco,  had  tobacco  much  better  than 
France,  which  did  grow  it,  a  rosy,  middle-aged  monsieur  made 
his  appearance,  saying  hurriedly  to  Graham's  neighbor:  "I'm 
afraid  I'm  late,  but  there  is  still  a  good  half-hour  before  us  if 
you  will  give  me  my  revenge." 
,  "  Willingly,  M.  Georges.  Garfon,  the  dominoes." 

"  Have  you  been  playing  at  billiards  ? "  asked   M.  Georges. 

"  Yes,  two  games." 

"  With  success?  " 

"  I  won  the  first,  and  lost  the  second  through  the  defect  of 
my  eyesight  ;  the  game  depended  on  a  stroke  which  would 
have  been  easy  to  an  infant — I  missed  it." 

Here  the  dominoes  arrived,  and  M.  Georges  began  shuffling 
them  ;  the  other  turned  to  Graham  and  asked  politely  if  he 
understood  the  game. 

"  A  little,  but  not  enough  to  comprehend  why  it  is  said  to 
require  so  much  skill." 

"  It  is  chiefly  an  affair  of  memory  with  me  ;  but  M.  Georges, 
my  opponent,  has  the  talent  of  combination,  which  I  have  not." 

"  Nevertheless,"  replied  M.  Georges  gruffly,  "  you  are  not 
easily  beaten  ;  it  is  for  you  to  play  first,  M.  Lebeau." 

Graham  almost  started.  Was  it  possible  !  This  mild,  limp- 
whiskered,  flaxen-wigged  man,  Victor  de  Mauleon,  the  Don 
Juan  of  his  time;  the  last  person  in  the  room  he  should  have 
guessed.  Yet,  now  examining  his  neighbor  with  more  atten- 
tive eye,  he  wondered  at  his  stupidity  in  not  having  recognized 
at  once  the  ci-devant  gcntilhomme  and  beau  gar f on.  It  happens 
frequently  that  our  imagination  plays  us  this  trick  ;  we  form 
to  ourselves  an  idea  of  some  one  eminent  for  good  or  for  evil  : 
a  poet,  a  statesman,  a  general,  a  murderer,  a  swindler,  a  thief  ; 
the  man  is  before  us,  and  our  ideas  have  gone  into  so  different 
£  groove  that  he  does  not  excit?  a  suspicion.  We  are  told  who 


THE    PARISIANS.  183 

he  is,  and  immediately  detect  a  thousand  things  that  ought  to 
have  proved  his  identity. 

Looking  thus  again  with  rectified  vision  at  the  false  Lebeau, 
Graham  observed  an  elegance  and  delicacy  of  feature  which 
might,  in  youth,  have  made  the  countenance  very  handsome, 
and  rendered  it  still  good-looking,  nay,  prepossessing.  He  now 
noticed,  too,  the  slight  Norman  accent,  its  native  harshness  of 
breadth  subdued  into  the  modulated  tones  which  bespoke  the 
habits  of  polished  society.  Above  all,  as  M.  Lebeau  moved 
his  dominoes  with  one  hand,  not  shielding  his  pieces  with  the 
other  (as  M.  Georges  warily  did),  but  allowing  it  to  rest  care- 
lessly on  the  table,  he  detected  the  hands  of  the  French  aristo- 
crat ;  hands  that  had  never  done  work  ;  never  (like  those  of 
the  English  noble  of  equal  birth)  been  embrowned  or  freckled, 
or  roughened,  or  enlarged  by  early  practice  in  athletic  sports  ; 
but  hands  seldom  seen  save  in  the  higher  c>cles  of  Parisian 
life — partly  perhaps  of  hereditary  formation,  partly  owing  their 
texture  to  great  care  begun  in  early  youth,  and  continued  me- 
chanically in  after-life — with  long,  taper  fingers  and  polished 
nails ;  white  and  delicate  as  those  of  a  woman,  but  not  slight, 
not  feeble ;  nervous  and  sinewy  as  those  of  a  practised  swords- 
man. 

Graham  watched  the  play,  and  Lebeau  good-naturedly  .ex- 
plained to  him  its  complications  as  it  proceeded  ;  though  the 
explanation,  diligently  attended  to  by  M.  Georges,  lost  Lebeau 
the  game. 

The  dominoes  were  again  shuffled,  and  during  that  operation 
M.  Georges  said  :  "By  the  way,  M.  Lebeau,  you  promised  to 
find  me  a  locataire  for  my  second  floor  ;  have  you  succeeded  ?  " 

"  Not  yet.  Perhaps  you  had  better  advertise  in  Les  Petites 
Affiches.  You  ask  too  much  for  the  habitues  of  this  neighbor- 
hood— 100  francs  a  month." 

"But  the  lodging  is  furnished,  and  well  too,  and  has  four 
rooms.  One  hundred  francs  are  not  much." 

A  thought  flashed  upon  Graham  :  "Pardon,  Monsieur,"  lie 
said,  "  have-you  an  appartement  de  gar  con  to  let  furnished  ?" 

"  Yes,  Monsieur,  a  charming  one.  Are  you  in  search  of  an 
apartment  ?  " 

"  I  have  some  idea  of  taking  one,  but  only  by  the  month. 
I  am  but  just  arrived  at  Paris,  and  I  have  business  which  may 
keep  me  here  a  few  weeks.  I  do  but  require  a  bedroom  and  a 
small  cabinet,  and  the  rent  must  be  modest.  I  am  not  a 
milord." 

"|  am  sure  we  could  arrange,  Monsieur,"  said   M.  Georges, 


184  THE    PARISIANS. 

"  though  I  could  not  well  divide  my  logcmenl.  But  100  francs 
a  month  is  not  much  !  " 

"  I  fear  it  is  more  than  I  can  afford  :  however,  if  you  will 
give  me  your  address,  I  will  call  and  see  the  rooms,  say  the  day 
after  to-morrow.  Between  this  and  then  I  expect  letters  which 
may  more  clearly  decide  my  movements." 

"  If  the  apartments  suit  you,"  said  M.  Lebeau,  "you  will  at 
least  be  in  the  house  of  a  very  honest  man,  which  is  more  than 
can  be  said  of  every  one  who  lets  furnished  apartments.  The 
house,  too,  has  a  concierge,  with  a  handy  wife  who  will  arrange 
your  rooms  and  provide  you  with  coffee — or  tea,  which  you 
English  prefer — if  you  breakfast  at  home." 

Here  M.  Georges  handed  a  card  to  Graham,  and  asked  what 
hour  he  would  call. 

"About  twelve,  if  that  hour  is  convenient,"  said  Graham, 
rising.  "  I  presume  there  is  a  restaurant  in  the  neighborhood, 
where  I  could  dine  reasonably." 

"  Je  crois  bien — half  a  dozen.  I  can  recommend  to  you  one 
where  you  can  dine  enprince  for  thirty  sous.  And  if  you  are 
at  Paris  on  business,  and  want  any  letters  written  in  private,  I 
can  also  recommend  to  you  my  friend  here,  M.  Lebeau.  Ay,  and 
on  affairs  his  advice  is  as  good  as  a  lawyer's,  and  his  fee  a 
bagatelle." 

"  Don't  believe  all  that  M.  Georges  so  flatteringly  says  of 
me,"  put  in  M.  Lebeau,  with  a  modest  half-smile,  and  in 
English.  "I  should  tell  you  that  I,  like  yourself,  am  recently 
arrived  at  Paris,  having  bought  the  business  and  good-will  of 
my  predecessor  in  the  apartment  I  occupy  ;  and  it  is  only  to 
the  respect  due  to  his  antecedents,  and  on  the  score  of  a  few 
letters  of  recommendation  which  I  bring  from  Lyons,  that  I  can 
attribute  the  confidence  shown  to  me,  a  stranger  in  this  neigh- 
borhood. Still  I  have  some  knowledge  of  the  world,  and  I  am 
always  glad  if  I  can  be  of  service  to  the  English.  I  love  the 
English," — he  said  this  with  a  sort  of  melancholy  earnestness 
which  seemed  sincere;  and  then  added  in  a  more  careless  tone: 
"  I  have  met  with  much  kindness  from  them  in  the  course  of 
a  checkered  life." 

"  You  seem  a  very  good  fellow — in  fact,  a  regular  trump, 
M.  Lebeau,"  replied  Graham,  in  the  same  language.  "  Give 
me  your  address.  To  say  truth,  I  am  a  very  poor  French 
scholar,  as  you  must  have  seen,  and  am  awfully  bother-headed 
how  to  manage  some  correspondence  on  matters  with  which  I 
am  entrusted  by  my  employer,  so  that  it  is  a  lucky  chance  which 
has  brought  me  acquainted  with  you," 


THE   PARISIANS.  185 

M.  Lebeau  inclined  his  head  gracefully,  and  drew  from  a 
very  neat  morocco  case  a  card,  which  Graham  took  and 
pocketed.  Then  he  paid  for  his  coffee  and  lemonade,  and 
returned  home,  well  satisfied  with  the  evening's  adventure. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

THE  next  morning  Gt^iham  sent  for  M.  Renard,  and  con- 
sulted with  that  experienced  functionary  as  to  the  details  of 
the  plan  of  action  which  he  had  revolved  during  the  hours  of 
a  sleepless  night. 

"  In  conformity  with  your  advice,"  said  he,  "  not  to  expose 
myself  to  the  chance  of  future  annoyance,  by  confiding  to  a 
man  so  dangerous  as  the  false  Lebeau  my  name  and  address,  I 
propose  to  take  the  lodging  offered  to  me,  as  Mr.  Lamb,  an 
attorney's  clerk,  commissioned  to  get  in  certain  debts,  and 
transact  other  matters  of  business,  on  behalf  of  his  employer's 
clients.  I  suppose  there  will  be  no  difficulty  with  the  police 
in  this  change  of  name,  now  that  passports  for  the  English  are 
hot  necessary  !  " 

"  Certainly  not.     You  will  have  no  trouble  in  that  respect." 

"  I  shall  thus  be  enabled  very  naturally  to  improve  acquaint- 
ance with  the  professional  letter-writer,  and  find  an  easy  op- 
portunity to  introduce  the  name  of  Louise  Duval.  My  chief 
difficulty,  I  fear,  not  being  a  practical  actor,  will  be  to  keep  up 
consistently  the  queer  sort  of  language  I  have  adopted,  both 
in  French  and  in  English.  I  have  too  sharp  a  critic  in  a  man  so 
consummate  himself  in  stage  trick  and  disguise  as  M.  Lebeau, 
not  to  feel  the  necessity  of  getting  through  my  r6le  as  quickly 
as  I  can.  Meanwhile,  can  you  recommend  me  to  some  magasin 
where  I  can  obtain  a  suitable  change  of  costume?  I  can't 
always  wear  a  travelling  suit,  and  I  must  buy  linen  of  coarser 
texture  than  mine,  and  with  the  initials  of  my  new  name  in- 
scribed on  it." 

"  Quite  right  to  study  such  details  ;  I  will  introduce  you  to 
a  magasin  near  the  Temple,  where  you  will  find  all  you  want." 

"  Next,  have  you  any  friends  or  relations  in  the  provinces 
unknown  to  M.  Lebeau,  to  whom  I  might  be  supposed  to  write 
about  debts  or  business  matters,  and  from  whom  I  might  have 
replies  ?  " 

"  I  will  think  over  it,  and  manage  that  for  you  very  easily. 
Your  letters  shall  find  their  way  to  me,  and  I  will  dictate  the 
answers." 


l86  THE    PARISIANS. 

After  some  further  conversation  on  that  business,  M.  Renard 
made  an  appointment  to  meet  Graham  at  a  cafe  near  the 
Temple  later  in  the  afternoon,  and  took  his  departure. 

Graham  then  informed  his  laquais  de  place  that,  though  he 
kept  on  his  lodgings-  he  was  going  into  the  country  for  a  few 
days,  and  should  not  want  the  man's  services  till  he  returned. 
He  therefore  dismissed  and  paid  him  off  at  once,  so  that  the 
Idquais  might  not  observe,  when  he  quitted  his  rooms  the  next 
day,  that  he  took  with  him  no  change  of  clothes,  etc. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

GRAHAM  VANE  had  been  for  some  days  in  the  apartment 
rented  of  M.  Georges.  He  takes  it  in  the  name  of  Mr.  Lamb — 
a  name  wisely  chosen,  less  common  than  Thompson  and  Smith, 
less  likely  to  be  supposed  an  assumed  name,  yet  common  enough 
not  to  be  able  easily  to  trace  it  to  any  special  family.  He 
appears,  as  he  had  proposed,  in  the  character  of  an  agent 
employed  by  a  solicitor  in  London  to  execute  sundry  com- 
missionspand  to  collect  certain  outstanding  debts.  There  is  no  • 
need  to  mention  the  name  of  the  solicitor  ;  if  there  were,  he 
could  give  the  name  of  his  own  solicitor,  to  whose  discretion 
he  could  trust  implicitly.  He  dresses  and  acts  up  to  his 
assumed  character  with  the  skill  of  a  man  who,  like  the  illustri- 
ous Charles  Fox,  has,  though  in  private  representations,  prac- 
tised the  stage-play  in  which  Demosthenes  said  the  triple  art 
of  oratory  consisted  ;  who  has  seen  a  great  deal  of  the  world, 
and  has  that  adaptability  of  intellect  which  knowledge  of  the 
world  lends  to  one  who  is  so  thoroughly  in  earnest  as  to  his 
end  that  he  agrees  to  be  sportive  as  to  his  means. 

The  kind  of  language  he  employs  when  speaking  EngHsh  to 
Lebeau  is  that  suited  to  the  role  of  a  dapper  young  underling 
of  vulgar  mind  habituated  to  vulgar  companionships.  I  feel  it 
due,  if  not  to  Graham  himself,  at  least  to  the  name  of  the  digni- 
fied orator  whose  name  he  inherits,  so  to  modify  and  soften 
the  hardy  style  of  that  peculiar  diction  in  v/hich  he  disguises 
his  birth  and  disgrace  his  culture,  that  it  is  only  here  and  there 
that  I  can  venture  to  indicate  the  general  tone  of  it.  But  in 
order  to  supply  my  deficiencies  therein,  the  reader  has  only  to 
call  to  mind  the  forms  of  phraseology  which  polite  novelists  in 
vogue,  especially  young-lady  novelists,  ascribe  to  well-born 
gentlemen,  and  more  emphatically  to  those  in  the  higher  ranks 
of  the  Peerage.  No  doubt  Graham,  in  his  capacity  of  critic, 


THE   PARISIANS.  187 

had  been  compelled  to  read,  in  order  to  review,  those  contribu- 
tions to  refined  literature,  and  had  familiarized  himself  to  a 
vein  of  conversation  abounding  with  "swell,"  and  "  stunner," 
and  "awfully  jolly,"  in  its  libel  on  manners  and  outrage  on  taste. 
He  has  attended  nightly  the  Cafe  Jean  Jacques  ;  he  has 
improved  acquaintance  with  M.  Georges  and  M.  Lebeau  ;  he 
has  played  at  billiards,  he  has  played  at  dominoes,  with  the 
latter.  He  has  been  much  surprised  at  the  unimpeachable 
honesty  which  M.  Lebeau  has  exhibited  in  both  these  games. 
In  billiards,  indeed,  a  man  cannot  cheat  except  by  disguising 
his  strength  ;  it  is  much  the  same  in  dominoes — it  is  skill  com- 
bined with  luck,  as  in  whist  ;  but  in  whist  there  are  modes  of 
cheating  which  dominoes  do  not  allow  :  you  can't  mark  a 
domino  as  you  can  a  card.  It  was  perfectly  clear  to  Graham 
that  M.  Lebeau  did  not  gain  a  livelihood  by  billiards  or  dominoes 
at  the  Cafe  Jean  Jacques.  Irj  the  former  he  was  not  only  a  fair 
but  a  generous  player.  He  played  exceedingly  well,  despite 
his  spectacles  ;  but  he  gave,  with  something  of  a  Frenchman's 
\Q(\.y  JanfaroniiLide,  larger  odds  to  his  adversary  than  his  play  jus- 
tified. In  dominoes,  where  such  odds  could  not  well  be  given, 
he  insisted  on  playing  such  small  stakes  as  two  or  three  francs 
might  cover.  In  short,  M.  Lebeau  puzzled  Graham.  All 
about  M.  Lebeau,  iiis  manner,  his  talk,  was  irreproachable, 
and  baffled  suspicion  ;  except  in  this,  Graham  gradually  dis- 
covered that  the  cafe  had  a  guast-poYnical  character.  Listen- 
ing to  talkers  around  him,  he  overheard  much  that  might  well 
have  shocked  the  notions  of  a  moderate  Liberal  ;  much  that 
held  in  disdain  the  objects  to  which,  in  1869,  an  English  Radi- 
cal directed  his  aspirations.  Vote  by  ballot,  universal  suf- 
frage, etc. — such  objects  the  French  had  already  attained.  By 
the  talkers  at  the  Cafe  Jean  Jacques  they  were  deemed  to  be 
the  tricky  contrivances  of  tyranny.  In  fact,  the  talk  was  more 
scornful  of  what  Englishmen  understand  by  radicalism  or  de- 
mocracy than  Graham  ever  heard  from  the  lips  of  an  ultra- 
Tory.  It  assumed  a  strain  of  philosophy  far  above  the  vulgar 
squabbles  of  ordinary  party  politicians — a  philosophy  which 
took  for  its  fundamental  principles  the  destruction  of  religion 
and  of  private  property.  These  two  objects  seemed  dependent 
the  one  on  the  other.  The  philosophers  of  the  Jean  Jacques 
held  with  that  expounder  of  Internationalism,\Eugene  Dupont, 
"  Nous  ne  voulons  plus  de  religion,  car  les  religions  etouffent 
l'intelligence.'M  Now  and  then,  indeed,  A  dissentient  voice 
was  raised  as  to  the  existence  of  a  Supreme  Being,  but,  with  one 

*  Discours  par  Eugene  Dupont  a  la  Cloture  du  Congrt-s  de  Bruxelles,  Sept.  3,  1868. 


l88  THE   PARISIANS. 

exception,  it  soon  sank  into  silence.  No  voice  was  raised  in 
defence  of  private  property.  These  sages  appeared  for  the 
most  part  to  belong  to  the  class  of  ouvi'iers  or  artisans.  Some 
of  them  were  foreigners — Belgian,  German,  English  ;  all 
seemed  well  off  for  their  calling.  Indeed  they  must  have  had 
comparatively  high  wages  to  judge  by  their  dress  and  the 
money  they  spent  on  regaling  themselves.  The  language  of 
several  was  well  chosen,  at  times  eloquent.  Some  brought 
with  them  women  who  seemed  respectable,  and  who  often 
joined  in  the  conversation,  especially  when  it  turned  upon  the 
law  of  marriage  as  a  main  obstacle  to  all  personal  liberty  and 
social  improvement.  If  this  was  a  subject  on  which  the 
women  did  not  all  agree,  still  they  discussed  it  without  preju- 
dice and  with  admirable  sang-froid.  Yet  many  of  them  looked 
like  wives  and  mothers.  Now  and  then  a  young  journeyman 
brought  with  him  a  young  lady  of  more  doubtful  aspect,  but 
such  a  couple  kept  aloof  from  the  others.  Now  and  then,  too, 
.a  man  evidently  of  higher  station  than  that  of  ouvrier,  and 
who  was  received  by  the  philosophers  with  courtesy  and 
respect,  joined  one  of  the  tables  and  ordered  a  bowl  of  punch 
for  general  participation.  In  such  occasional  visitors,  Graham, 
still  listening,  detected  a  writer  of  the  press  ;  now  and  then  a 
small  artist,  or  actor,  or  medical  student.  Among  the  habitues 
there  was  one  man,  an  ouvrier,  in  whom  Graham  could  not 
help  feeling  an  interest.  He  was  called  Monnier,  sometimes 
more  familiarly  Armand,  his  baptismal  appellation.  This  man 
had  a  bold  and  honest  expression  of  countenance.  He  talked 
like  one  who,  if  he  had  not  read  much,  had  thought  much  on 
the  subjects  he  loved  to  discuss.  He  argued  against  the  capi- 
tal of  employers  quite  as  ably  as  Mr.  Mill  has  argued  against 
the  rights  of  property  in  land.  He  was  still  more  eloquent 
against  the  laws  of  marriage  and  heritage.  But  his  was  the 
one  voice  not  to  be  silenced  in  favor  of  a  Supreme  Being.  He 
had  at  least  the  courage  of  his  opinions,  and  was  ahvays 
thoroughly  in  earnest.  M.  Lebeau  seemed  to  know  this  man, 
and  honored  him  with  a  nod  and  a  smile,  when  passing  by 
him  to  the  table  he  generally  occupied.  This  familiarity  with 
a  man  of  that  class,  and  of  opinions  so  extreme,  excited  Gra- 
ham's curiosity.  One  evening  he  said  to  Lebeau  :  "A  queer 
fellow  that  you  have  just  nodded  to." 

"  How  so  ? " 

"Well,  he  has  que'er  notions." 

"Notions  shared,  I  believe,  by  many  of  your  countrymen  ?" 

"I  should  think  not  many.     Those  poor  simpletons  yonder 


THE    PARISIANS.  189 

may  have  caught  them  from  their  French  fellow-workmen,  but 
I  don't  think  that  even  the  gobemouchcs  in  our  National  Reform 
Society  open  their  mouths  to  swallow  such  wasps." 

"Yet  I  believe  the  association  to  which  most  of  those  ou- 
vriers  belong  had  its  origin  in  England." 

"  Indeed  !     What  association  ?" 

"The  International." 

"Ah,  I  have  heard  of  that." 

Lebeau  turned  his  green  spectacles  full  on  Graham's  face 
as  he  said  slowly,  "And  what  do  you  think  of  it?" 

Graham  prudently  checked  the  disparaging  reply  that  first 
occurred  to  him,  and  said  :  "I  know  so  little  about  it  that  I 
would  rather  ask  you." 

"I  think  it  might  become  formidable  if  it  found  able  leaders 
who  knew  how  to  use  it.  Pardon  me — how  came  you  to  know 
of  this  cafe?  Were  you  recommended  to  it?" 

"  No  ;  I  happened  to  be  in  this  neighborhood  on  business, 
and  walked  in,  as  I  might  into  any  other  cafe." 

"You  don't  interest  yourself  in  the  great  social  questions 
which  are  agitated  below  the  surface  of  this  best  of  all  possible 
worlds  ? " 

"  I  can't  say  that  I  trouble  my  head  much  about  them." 

"  A  game  at  dominoes  before  M.  Georges  arrives?" 

"Willingly.  Is  M.  Georges  one  of  those  agitators  below  the 
surface?" 

"  No,  indeed.     It  is  for  you  to  play." 

Here  M.  Georges  arrived,  and  no  further  conversation  on 
political  or  social  questions  ensued. 

Grahim  had  already  called  more  than  once  at  M.  Lebeau's 
office,  and  asked  him  to  put  into  good  French  various  letters 
on  matters  of  business,  the  subjects  of  which  had  been  fur- 
nished by  M.  Renard.  The  office  was  rather  imposing  and 
stately,  considering  the  modest  nature  of  M.  Lebeau's  ostensi- 
ble profession.  It  occupied  the  entire  ground-floor  of  a  corner 
house,  with  a  front  door  at  one  angle  and  a  back-door  at  the 
other.  The  ante-room  to  his  cabinet,  and  in  which  Graham 
had  generally  to  wait  some  minutes  before  he  was  introduced, 
was  generally  well  filled,  and  not  only  by  persons  who,  by 
their  dress  and  outward  appearance,  might  be  fairly  supposed 
sufficiently  illiterate  to  require  his  aid  as  polite  letter-writers — 
not  only  by  servant  maids  and  griseties,  by  sailors,  zouaves,  and 
journeymen  workmen — but  not  unfrequently  by  clients  evi- 
dently belonging  to  a  higher,  or  at  least  a  richer,  class  of  soci- 
ety— men  with  clothes  made  by  a  fashionable  tailor  ;  men  again, 


190  THE    PARISIANS. 

who,  less  fashionably  attired,  looked  like  opulent  tradesmen 
and  fathers  of  well-to-do  families — the  first  generally  young, 
the  last  generally  middle-aged.  All  these  denizens  of  a  higher 
world  were  introduced  by  a  saturnine  clerk  into  M.  Lebeau's 
reception-room,  very  quickly  and  in  precedence  of  the  ouvriers 
and  gr  is  cites. 

"What  can  this  mean?"  thought  Graham.  "Is  it  really 
that  this  humble  business  avowed  is  the  cloak  to  some  political 
conspiracy  concealed — the  International  Association?"  And, 
so  pondering,  the  clerk  one  day  singled  him  from  the  crowd 
and  admitted  him  into  M.  Lebeau's  cabinet.  Graham  thought 
the  time  had  now  arrived  when  he  might  safely  approach  the 
subject  that  had  brought  him  to  the  Faubourg  Montmartre. 

"  You  are  very  good,"  said  Graham,  speaking  in  the  English 
of  a  young  earl  in  our  elegant  novel*  ;  "You  are  very  good  to 
let  me  in  while  you  have  so  many  swells  and  nobs, waiting  for 
you  in  the  other  room.  But,  I  say,  old  fellow,  you  have  not 
the  cheek  to  tell  me  that  they  want  you  to  correct  their  cocker 
or  spoon  for  them  by  proxy  ?" 

"  Pardon  me,"  answered  M.  Lebeau  in  French,  "  if  I  prefer 
my  own  language  in  replying  to  you.  I  speak  the  English  I 
learned  many  years  ago,  and  your  language  in  the  beau  monde, 
to  which  you  evidently  belong,  is  strange  to  me.  You  are 
quite  right,  however,  in  your  surmise  that  I  have  other  clients 
than  those  who,  like  yourself,  think  I  could  correct  their  verbs 
or  their  spelling.  I  have  seen  a  great  deal  of  the  world  ;  I 
know  something  of  it,  and  something  of  the  law  ;  so  that  many 
persons  come  to  -me  for  advice  and  for  legal  information  on 
terms  more  moderate  than  those  of  an  aroue.  But  my  ante- 
chamber is  full,  I  am  pressed  for  time ;  excuse  me  if  I  ask 
you  to  say  at  once  in  what  I  can  be  agreeable  to  you  to- 
day." 

"Ah!"  said  Graham,  assuming  a  very  earnest  look,  "  you 
do  know  the  world,  that  is  clear;  and  you  do  know  the  law  of 
France — eh  ?  " 

"  Yes,  a  little." 

"  What  I  wanted  to  say  at  present  may  have  something  to 
do  with  French  law,  and  I  meant  to  ask  you  either  to  recommend 
to  me  a  sharp  lawyer,  or  to  tell  me  how  I  can  best  get  at  your 
famous  police  here." 

"  Police  !  " 

"  I  think  I  may  require  the  service  of  one  of  those  officers 
whom  we  in  England  call  detectives ;  but  if  you  are  busy  now, 
I  can  call  to-morrow." 


THE    PARISIANS.  19! 

"  I  spare  you  two  minutes.  Say  at  once,  dear  Monsieur, 
what  you  want  with  law  or  police  ?  " 

"  I  am  instructed  to  find  out  the  address  of  a  certain  Louise 
Duval,  daughter  of  a  drawing-master  named  Adolphe  Duval, 
living  in  the  Rue in  the  year  1848." 

Graham,  while  he  thus  said,  naturally  looked  Lebeau  in  the 
face — not  pryingly,  not  significantly,  but  as  a  man  generally 
does  look  in  the  face  the  other  man  whom  he  accosts  seriously. 
The  change  in  the  face  he  regarded  was  slight,  but  it  was  un- 
mistakable. It  was  the  sudden  meeting  of  the  eyebrows, 
accompanied  with  the  sudden  jerk  of  the  shoulder  and  bend 
of  the  neck,  which  betoken  a  man  taken  by  surprise,  and  who 
pauses  to  reflect  before  he  replies.  His  pause  was  but  momen- 
tary. 

"  For  what  object  is  this  address  required  ?  " 

"  That  I  don't  know  ;  but  evidently  for  some  advantage  to 
Madame  or  Mademoiselle  Duval,  if  still  alive,  because  my 
employer  authorizes  me  to  spend  no  less  than  ^100  in  ascer- 
taining where  she  is,  if  alive,  or  where  she  was  buried,  if  dead  ; 
and  if  other  means  fail,  I  am  instructed  to  advertise  to  the 
effect,  '  That  if  Louise  Duval,  or,  in  case  of  her  death,  any 
children  of  hers  living  in  the  year  1849,  will  communicate  with 
some  person  whom  I  may  appoint  at  Paris,  such  intelligence, 
authenticated,  may  prove  to  the  advantage  of  the  party 
advertised  for.'  I  am,  however,  told  not  to  resort  to  this  means, 
•without  consulting  either  with  a  legal  adviser  or  the  police." 

"  Hem  !  Have  you  inquired  at  the  house  where  this  lady 
was,  you  say,  living  in  1848  ?  " 

"Of  course  I  have  done  that ;  but  very  clumsily,  I  dare  say — 
through  a  friend — and  learned  nothing.  But  I  must  not  keep 
you  now.  I  think  I  shall  apply  at  once  to  the  police.  Wljat 
should  I  say  when  I  get  to  the  bureau  ?" 

"  Stop,  Monsieur,  stop.  I  do  not  advise  you  to  apply  to  the 
police.  It  would  be  waste  of  time  and  money.  Allow  me  to 
think  over  the  matter.  I  shall  see  you  this  evening  at  the  Cafe 
Jean  Jacques  at  eight  o'clock.  Till  then  do  nothing." 

"  All  right  ;  I  obey  you.  The  whole  thing  is  out  of  my  way 
of  business — awfully.  Bon  jour" 


CHAPTER  IX. 

PUNCTUALLY  at  eight  o'clock  Graham  Vane  had  taken  his 
seat  at  a  corner  table  at  the  remote  end  of  the  Cafe"  Jean  Jacques, 


IQ2  THE    PARISIANS. 

called  for  his  cup  of  coffee  and  his  evening  journal,  and  awaited 
the  arrival  of  M.  Lebeau.  His  patience  was  not  tasked  long. 
In  a  few  minutes  the  Frenchman  entered,  paused  at  the  comp- 
toir,  as  was  his  habit,  to  address  a  polite  salutation  to  the  well- 
dressed  lady  who  there  presided,  nodded  as  usual  to  Armand 
Monnier,  then  glanced  round,  recognized  Graham  with  a  smile, 
and  approached  his  table  with  the  quiet  grace  of  movement  by 
which  he  was  distinguished. 

Seating  himself  opposite  to  Graham,  and  speaking  in  a  voice 
too  low  to  be  heard  by  others,  and  in  French,  he  then  said  : 

"In  thinking  over  your  communication  this  morning,  it 
strikes  me  as  probable,  perhaps  as  certain,  that  this  Louise 
Duval  or  her  children,  if  she  have  any,  must  be  entitled  to  some 
moneys  bequeathed  to  her  by  a  relation  or  friend  in  England. 
What  say  you  to  that  assumption,  M.  Lamb  ?" 

"You  are  a  sharp  fellow,"  answered  Graham.  "Just  what  I 
say  to  myself.  Why  else  should  I  be  instructed  to  go  to  such 
expense  in  finding  her  out?  Most  likely,  if  one  can't  trace 
her,  or  her  children  born  before  the  date  named,  any  such 
moneys  will  go  to  some  one  else  ;  and  that  some  one  else,  who- 
ever he  be,  has  commissioned  my  employer  to  find  out.  But  I 
don't  imagine  any  sum  due  to  her  or  her  heirs  can  be  much, 
or  that  the  matter  is  very  important ;  for,  if  so,  the  thing  would 
not  be  carelessly  left  in  the  hands  of  one  of  the  small  fry  like 
myself,  and  clapped  in  along  with  a  lot  of  other  business  as  an 
off-hand  job." 

"Will  you  tell  me  who  employed  you  ?" 

"No,  I  don't  feel  authorized  to  do  that  at  present;  and  I 
don't  see  the  necessity  of  it.  It  seems  to  me,  on  consideration, 
a  matter  for  the  police  to  ferret  out ;  only,  as  I  asked  before, 
how  should  I  get  at  the  police?" 

"That  is  not  difficult.  It  is  just  possible  that  I  might  help 
you  better  than  any  lawyer,  or  any  detective." 

"  Why,  did  you  ever  know  this  Louise  Duval  ?" 

"  Excuse  me,  M.  Lamb  :  you  refuse  me  your  full  confidence  ; 
allow  me  to  imitate  your  reserve." 

"Oho  !"  said  Graham  ;  "shut  up  as  close  as  you  like  ;  it  is 
nothing  to  me.  Only  observe,  there  is  this  difference  between 
us,  that  I  am  employed  by  another.  He  does  not  authorize 
me  to  name  him  ;  and  if  I  did  commit  that  indiscretion,  I 
might  lose  my  bread  and  cheese.  Whereas  you  have  nobody's 
secret  to  guard  but  your  own,  in  saying  whether  or  not  you 
ever  knew  a  Madame  or  Mademoiselle  Duval.  And  if  you 
have  some  reason  for  not  getting  me  the  information  I  am  in- 


THE    PARISIANS.  193 

structed  to  obtain,  that  is  also  a  reason  for  not  troubling  you 
farther.  And  after  all,  old  boy  (with  a  familiar  slap  on  Le- 
beau's  stately  shoulder),  after  all,  it  is  I  who  would  employ 
you  ;  you  don't  employ  me.  And  if  you  find  out  the  lady,  it 
is  you  who  would  get  the  one  hundred  pounds,  not  I." 

M.  Lebeau  mechanically  brushed,  with  a  light  movement  of 
hand,  the  shoulder  which  the  Englishman  had  so  pleasantly 
touched,  drew  himself  and  chair  some  inches  back,  and  said 
slowly  : 

"  M.  Lamb,  let  us  talk  as  gentleman  to  gentleman.  Put 
aside  the  question  of  money  altogether,  I- must  first  know  why 
your  employer  wants  to  hunt  out  this  poor  Louise  Duval.  It 
may  be  to  her  injury,  and  I  would  do  her  none  if  you  offered 
thousands  where  you  offer  pounds.  I  forestall  the  condition 
of  mutual  confidence  ;  I  own  that  I  have  known  her — it  is 
many  years  ago  ;  and,  M.  Lamb,  though  a  Frenchman  very 
often  injures  a  woman  from  love,  he  is  in  a  worse  plight  for 
bread  and  cheese  than  I  am  if  he  injures  her  for  money." 

"  Is  he  thinking  of  the  duchess's  jewels?"  thought  Graham. 

"Bravo,  mon  vieux"  he  said  aloud  ;  "but  as  I  don't  know 
what  my  employer's  motive  in  his  commission  is,  perhaps  you 
can  enlighten  me.  How  could  his  inquiry  injure  Louise  Du- 
val?" 

"  I  cannot  say  ;  but  you  English  have  the  power  to  divorce 
your  wives.  Louise  Duval  may  have  married  an  Englishman, 
separated  from  him,  and  he  wants  to  know  where  he  can  find, 
in  order  to  criminate  and  divorce  her,  or  it  may  be  to  insist  on 
her  return  to  him." 

"  Bosh  !     That  is  not  likely." 

"  Perhaps,  then,  some  English  friend  she  may  have  known 
has  left  her  a  bequest,  which  would  of  course  lapse  to  some 
one  else  if  she  be  not  living." 

"By  gad  !"  cried  Graham,  "  I  think  you  .  hit  the  right  nail 
on  the  head  :  c'est  cela.  But  what  then  ?" 

"  Well,  if  I  thought  any  substantial  benefit  to  Louise  Duval 
might  result  from  the  success  of  your  inquiry,  I  would  really 
see  if  it  were  in  my  power  to  help  you.  But  I  must  have  time 
to  consider." 

"  How  long  ?" 

"  I  can't  exactly  say  ;  perhaps  three  or  four  days." 

"Bon!  I  will  wait.  Here  comes  M.  Georges.  I  leave  you 
to  dominoes  and  him.  Good-night." 

Late  that  night  M.  Lebeau  was  seated  alone  in  the  chamber 
connected  with  the  cabinet  in  which  he  received  visitors.  A 


i94 


THE    PARISIANS. 


ledger  was  open  before  him,  which  he  scanned  with  careful 
eyes,  no  longer  screened  by  spectacles.  The  survey  seemed 
to  satisfy  him.  He  murmured  :  "  It  suffices — the  time  has 
come";  closed  the  book,  returned  it  to  his  bureau,  which  he 
locked  up,  and  then  wrote  in  cipher  the  letter  here  reduced 
into  English  : 

"  DEAR  AN\V  NOBLE  FRIEND  : 

"  Events  march  ;  the  Empire  is  everywhere  undermined. 
Our  treasury  has  thriven  in  my  hands  ;  the  sums  subscribed 
and  received  by  me  through  you  have  become  more  than  quad- 
rupled by  advantageous  speculations,  in  which  M.  Georges 
has  been  a  most  trustworthy  agent.  A  portion  of  them  I  have 
continued  to  employ  in  the  mode  suggested,  viz.,  in  bringing 
together  men  discreetly  chosen  as  being  in  their  various  ways 
representatives  and  ringleaders  of  the  motley  varieties  that, 
when  united  at  the  right  moment,  form  a  Parisian  mob.  But 
from  that  right  moment  we  are  as  yet  distant.  Before  we  can 
call  passion  into  action,  we  must  prepare  opinion  for  change. 
I  propose  now  to  devote  no  inconsiderable  portion  of  our  fund 
towards  the  inauguration  of  a  journal  which  shall  gradually 
give  voice  to  our  designs.  Trust  to  me  to  insure  its  success,  and 
obtain  the  aid  of  writers  who  will  have  no  notion  of  the  uses  to 
which  they  ultimately  contribute.  Now  that  the  time  has  come 
to  establish  for  ourselves  an  organ  in  the  press,  addressing 
higher  orders  of  intelligence  than  those  which  are  needed  to 
destroy,  and  incapable  of  reconstructing,  the  time  has  also 
arrived  for  the  reappearance  in  his  proper  name  and  rank  of 
the  man  in  whom  you  take  so  gracious  an  interest.  In  vain 
you  have  pressed  him  to  do  so  before ;  till  now  he  had  not 
amassed  together,  by  the  slow  process  of  petty  gains  and  con- 
stant savings,  with  such  additions  as  prudent  speculations  on 
his  own  account  might  contribute,  the  modest  means  necessary 
to  his  resumed  position.  And  as  he  always  contended  against 
your  generous  offers,  no  consideration  should  ever  tempt  him 
either  to  appropriate  to  his  personal  use  a  single  sou  intrusted 
to  him  for  a  public  purpose,  or  to  accept  from  friendship  the 
pecuniary  aid  which  would  abase  him  into  the  hireling  of  a 
cause.  No  !  Victor  de  Mauleon  despises  too  much  the  tools 
that  he  employs  to  allow  any  man  hereafter  to  say,  '  Thou  also 
wert  a  tool,  and  hast  been  paid  for  thy  uses.' 

"  But  to  restore  the  victim  of  calumny  to  his  rightful  place 
in  this  gaudy  world,  stripped  of  youth  and  reduced  in  fortune, 
is  a  task  that  may  well  seem  impossible.  To-morrow  he  takes 


THE    PARISIANS.  195 

the  first  step  towards  the  achievement  of  the  impossible.  Ex- 
perience is  no  bad  substitute  for  youth,  and  ambition  is  made 
Stronger  by  the  goad  of  poverty. 

"  Thou  shall  hear  of  his  news  soon." 


BOOK  V. 


CHAPTER  I. 

THE  next  day  at  noon  M.  Louvier  was  closeted  in  his  study 
with  M.  Gandrin. 

"  Yes,"  cried  Louvier,  "I  have  behaved  very  handsomely  to 
the  beau  Marquis.  No  one  can  say  to  the  contrary." 

"  True,"  answered  Gandrin.  "  Besides  the  easy  terms  for 
the  transfer  of  the  mortgages,  that  free  bonus  of  1000  louis  is 
a  generous  and  noble  act  of  munificence." 

"  Is  it  not  !  And  my  youngster  has  already  begun  to  do  with 
it  as  I  meant  and  expected.  He  has  taken  a  fine  apartment  ; 
he  has  bought  a  coupe  and  horses  ;  he  has  placed  himself  in  the 
hands  of  the  Chevalier  de  Finisterre  ;  he  is  entered  at  the 
Jockey  Club.  Farbleu,  the  1000  louis  will  be  soon  gone." 

"  And  then  ?  " 

"  And  then  !  Why,  he  will  have  tasted  the  sweets  of  Pa- 
risian life.  He  will  think  with  disgust  of  the  vieux  manoir.  He 
can  borrow  no  more.  I  must  remain  sole  mortgagee,  and  I 
shall  behave  as  handsomely  in  buying  his  estate  as  I  have  be- 
haved in  increasing  his  income." 

Here  a  clerk  entered  and  said  "  that  a  monsieur  wished  to  see 
M.  Louvier  for  a  few  minutes  in  private,  on  urgent  business." 

"  Tell  him  to  send  in  his  card." 

"  He  has  declined  to  do  so,  but  states  that  he  has  already 
the  honor  of  your  acquaintance." 

"  A  writer  in  the  press,  perhaps  ;  or  is  he  an  artist  ?  " 

"I  have  not  seen  him  before,  Monsieur,  but  he  has  the  air 
trts  comme  il  faut." 

"  Well,  you  may  admit  him.  I  will  not  detain  you  longer, 
my  dear  Gandrin.  My  homages  to  Madame.  Bon  jour." 

Louvier  bowed  out  M.  Gandrin,  and  then  rubbed  his  hands 
complacently.  He  was  in  high  spirits.  "  Aha,  my  dear  Mar- 
quis, thou  art  in  my  trap  now.  Would  it  were  thy  father  in- 
stead," he  muttered  chucklingly,  and  then  took  his  stand  on  the 


196  THE    PARISIANS. 

hearth,  with  his  back  to  the  fireless  grare  There  entered  a 
gentleman  exceedingly  well  dressed — dressed  according  to  the 
fashion,  but  still  as  became  one  of  ripe  middle  age,  not  desiring 
to  pass  for  younger  than  he  was. 

He  was  tall,  with  a  kind  of  lofty  ease  in  his  air  and  his  move- 
ments ;  not  slight  of  frame,  but  spare  enough  to  disguise  the 
strength  and  endurance  which  belong  to  sinews  and  thews  of 
steel,  freed  from  all  superfluous  flesh,  broad  across  the  shoul- 
ders, thin  in  the  flanks.  His  dark  hair  had  in  youth'been  lux- 
uriant in  thickness  and  curl  ;  it  was  now  clipped  short,  and  had 
become  bare  at  the  temples,  but  it  still  retained  the  lustre  of  its 
color  and  the  crispness  of  its  ringlets.  He  wore  neither  beard 
nor  moustache,  and  the  darkness  of  his  hair  was  contrasted  by 
a  clear  fairness  of  complexion,  healthful,  though  somewhat  pale, 
and  eyes  of  that  rare  gray  tint  which  has  in  it  no  shade  of 
blue — peculiar  eyes,  which  give  a  very  distinct  character  to  the 
face.  The  man  must  have  been  singularly  handsome  in  youth  ; 
he  was  handsome  still,  though  probably  in  his  forty-seventh 
or  forty-eighth  year,  doubtless  a  very  different  kind  of  comeli- 
ness. The  form  of  the  features  and  the  contour  of  the  face 
were  those  that  suit  the  rounded  beauty  of  the  Greek  outline, 
and  such  beauty  would  naturally  have  been  the  attribute  of  the 
countenance  in  earlier  days.  But  the  cheeks  were  now  thin, 
and  with  lines  of  care  and  sorrow  between  nostril  and  lip,  so 
that  the  shape  of  the  face  seemed  lengthened,  and  the  features 
had  become  more  salient. 

Louvier  gazed  at  his  visitor  with  a  vague  idea  that  he  had 
seen  him  before  and  could  not  remember  where  or  when  ;  but 
at  all  events  he  recognized  at  the  first  glance  a  man  of  rank 
and  of  the  great  world. 

"  Pray  be  seated,  Monsieur  !  "  he  said,  resuming  his  own 
easy-chair. 

The  visitor  obeyed  the  invitation  with  a  very  graceful  bend 
of  his  head,  drew  his  chair  near  to  the  financier's,  stretched  his 
limbs  with  the  ease  of  a  man  making  himself  at  home,  and  fix- 
ing his  calm,  bright  eyes  quietly  on  Louvier,  said,  with  a  bland 
smile  : 

"  My  dear  old  friend,  do  you  not  remember  me  ?  You  are 
less  altered  than  I  am." 

Louvier  stared  hard  and  long ;  his  lip  fell,  his  cheek  paled, 
and  at  last  he  faltered  out :  "  del !  is  it  possible  !  Victor — the 
Vicomte  de  Mauleon  ?  " 

"At  your  service,  my  dear  Louvier." 

There  was  a  pause  ;  the  financier  was  evidently  confused  and 


THE    PARISIANS.  197 

embarrassed,  and  not  less  evidently  the  visit  of  the  "dear  old 
friend  "  was  unwelcome. 

"Vicomte,"  he  said  at  last,  "this  is  indeed  a  surprise;  I 
thought  you  had  long  since  quitted  Paris  for  good." 

"  '  Uhomme  propose,'  etc.  I  have  returned,  and  mean  to  en- 
joy the  rest  of  my  days  in  the  metropolis  of  the  Graces  and 
the  Pleasures.  What  though  we  are  not  so  young  as  we  were, 
Louvier,  we  have  more  vigor  in  us  than  the  new  generation  ; 
and  though  it  may  no  longer  befit  us  to  renew  the  gay  carousals 
of  old,  life  has  still  excitements  as  vivid  for  the  social  temper- 
ament and  ambitious  mind.  Yes,  the  rot  des  viveurs  returns 
to  Paris  for  a  more  solid  throrie  than  he  filled  before." 

"  Are  you  serious  ?  " 

"  As  serious  as  the  French  gayety  will  permit  one  to  be." 

"  Alas,  M.  le  Vicomte,  can  you  flatter  yourself  that  you  will 
regain  the  society  you  have  quitted  and  the  name  you  have — " 

Louvier  stopped  short ;  something  in  the  Vicomte's  eye 
daunted  him. 

"  The  name  I  have  laid  aside  for  convenience  of  travel. 
Princes  travel  in-cognito,  and  so  may  a  simple  gentilhomme. 
'  Regain  my  place  in  society,'  say  you  ?  Yes  ;  it  is  not  that 
which  troubles  me." 

"  What  does  ?  " 

"  The  consideration  whether  on  a  very  modest  income  I  can 
be  sufficiently  esteemed  for  myself  to  render  that  society  more 
pleasant  than  ever.  Ah,  man  c/ier,\vhy  recoil  ?  Why  so  fright- 
ened ?  Do  you  think  I  am  going  to  ask  you  for  money  ?  Have 
I  ever  done  so  since  we  parted  ?  And  did  I  ever  do  so  before 
without  repaying  you  ?  Bah  !  you  roturiers  are  worse  than  the 
Bourbons.  You  never,  learn  or  unlearn.  '  Fors  non  mutat 
genus.'  " 

The  magnificent  millionnaire,  accustomed  to  the  homage  of 
grandees  from  the  faubourg  and  lions  from  the  Chaussee  d'An- 
tin,  rose  to  his  feet  in  superb  wrath,  less  at  the  taunting  words 
than  at  the  haughtiness  of  mien  with  which  they  were  uttered. 

"  Monsieur,  I  cannot  permit  you  to  address  me  in  that  tone. 
Do  you  mean  to  insult  me  ?  " 

"Certainly  not.  Tranquillize  your  nerves,  reseat  yourself, 
and  listen  ;  reseat  yourself,  I  say." 

Louvier  dropped  into  his  chair. 

"  No,"  resumed  the  Vicomte  politely,  "  I  do  not  come  here 
to  insult  you,  neither  do  I  come  to  ask  money  ;  I  assume  that 
I  am  in  my  rights  when  I  ask  M.  Louvier  what  has  become 
of  Louise  Duval  ?" 


198  THE    PARISIANS. 

"  Louise  Duval !     I  know  nothing  about  her." 

"  Possibly  not  now  ;  but  you  did  know  her  well  enough, 
when  we  two  parted,  to  be  a  candidate  for  her  hand.  You  did 
know  her  enough  to  solicit  my  good  offices  in  promotion  of 
your  suit  ;  and  you  did,  at  my  advice,  quit  Paris  to  seek  her  at 
Aix-la-Chapelle." 

"  What,  have  you,  M.  de  Mauleon,  not  heard  news  of  her 
since  that  day  ? " 

"  I  decline  to  accept  your  question  as  an  answer  to  mine. 
You  went  to  Aix-la-Chapelle  ;  you  saw  Louise  Duval ;  at  my 
urgent  request  she  condescended  to  accept  your  hand." 

"No,  M.  de  Mauleon,  she  did  not  accept  my  hand.  I  did 
not  even  see  her.  The  day  before  I  arrived  at  Aix-la  Chapelie 
she  had  left  it — not  alone — left  it  with  her  lover." 

"  Her  lover  !  Ypu  do  not  mean  the  miserable  Englishman 
who — " 

"  No  Englishman,"  interrupted  Louvier  fiercely.  "Enough 
that  the  step  she  took  placed  an  eternal  barrier  between  her 
and  myself.  I  have  never  even  sought  to  hear  of  her  since 
that  day.  Vicomte,  that  woman  was  the  one  love  of  my  life. 
I  loved  her,  as  you  must  have  known,  to  folly,  to  madness. 
And  how  was  my  love  requited?  Ah,  you  open  a  very  deep 
wound,  M.  le  Vicomte." 

"Pardon  me,  Louvier  ;  I  did  not  give  you  credit  for  feelings 
so  keen  and  so  genuine,  nor  did  I  think  myself  thus  easily  af- 
fected by  matters  belonging  to  a  past  life  so  remote  from  the 
present.  For  whom  did  Louise  forsake  you?" 

"It  matters  not — he  is  dead." 

"I  regret  to  hear  that ;  I  might  have  avenged  you." 

"I  need  no  one  to  avenge  my  wrong.     Let  this  pass." 

"  Not  yet.  Louise,  you  say,  fled  with  a  seducer?  So  proud 
as  she  was,  I  can  scarcely  believe  it." 

".Oh,  it  was  not  with  a  roturier  she  fled;  her  pride  would 
not  have  allowed  that." 

"  He  must  have  deceived  her  somehow.  Did  she  continue 
to/live  with  him  ?  " 

"  That  question,  at  least,  I  can  answer  ;  for  though  I  lost  all 
trace  of  her  life,  his  life  was  pretty  well  known  to  me  till  its 
end  ;  and  a  very  few  months  after  she  fled  he  was  enchained 
to  another.  Let  us  talk  of  her  no  more." 

"Ay,  ay,"  muttered  De  Mauleon,  "  some  disgraces  are  not  to 
be  redeemed,  and  therefore  not  to  be  discussed.  To  me, 
though  a  relation,  Louise  Duval  was  but  little  known,  and  after 
what  you  tell  me,  I  cannot  dispute  your  right  to  say,  '  talk  of 


THE    PARISIANS.  1$9 

lier  no  more/  You  loved  her,  and  she  wronged  you.  My 
poor  Louvier,  pardon  me  if  I  made  an  old  wound  bleed 
afresh." 

These  words  were  said  with  a  certain  pathetic  tenderness  ; 
they  softened  Louvier  towards  the  speaker. 

After  a  short  pause  the  Vicomte  swept  his  hand  over  his 
brow,  as  if  to  dismiss  from  his  mind  a  painful  and  obtrusive 
thought ;  then  with  a  changed  expression  of  countenance — an 
expression  frank  and  winning — with  voice  and  manner  in  which 
no  vestige  remained  of  the  irony  or  the  haughtiness  with  which 
he  had  resented  the  frigidity  of  his  reception,  he  drew  his  chair 
still  nearer  to  Louvier's,  and  resumed  :  "Our  situations,  Paul 
Louvier,  are  much  changed  since  we  two  became  friends.  I 
then  could  say,  'Open  sesame'  to  whatever  recesses,  forbidden 
to  vulgar  footsteps,  the  adventurer  whom  I  took  by  the  hand 
might  wish  to  explore.  In  those  days  my  heart  was  warm  ;  I 
jiked  you,  Louvier — honestly  liked  you.  I  think  our  personal 
acquaintance  commenced  in  some  gay  gathering  of  young 
viveurs,  whose  behavior  to  you  offended  my  sense  of  good 
breeding?" 

Louvier  colored  and  muttered  inaudibly. 

De  Mauleon  continued  :    "  I  felt  it  due  to   you  to  rebuke 
their  incivilities,  the  more  so  as  you  evinced  on  that  occasion 
your  own  superiority  in  sense  and  temper,  permit  me  to  add, 
with  no  lack  of  becoming  spirit." 
.    Louvier  bowed  his  head,  evidently  gratified 

"  From  that  day  we  became  familiar.  If  any  obligation  to 
me  were  incurred,  you  would  not  have  been  slow  to  return  it. 
On  more  than  one  occasion  when  I  was  rapidly  wasting  money — 
and  money  was  plentiful  with  you — you  generously  offered  me 
your  purse.  On  more  than  one  occasion  I  accepted  the  offer  ; 
and  you  would  never  have  asked  repayment  if  I  had  not  insisted 
on  repaying.  I  was  no  less  grateful  for  your  aid." 

Louvier  made  a  movement  as  if  to  extend  his  hand,  but  he 
checked  the  impulse. 

"There  was  another  attraction  which  drew  me  towards  you. 
I  recognized  in  your  character  a  certain  power  in  sympathy 
with  that  power  which  I  imagined  lay  dormant  in  myself,  and 
not  to  be  found  among  the  freluqucts  and  lions  who  were  my 
more  habitual  associates.  Do  you  not  remember  some  hours  of 
serious  talk  we  -have  had  together  when  we  lounged  in  the 
Tuileries,  or  sipped  our  coffee  in  the  garden  of  the  Palais 
Royal  ? — hours  when  we  forgot  that  those  were  the  haunts  of 
idlers,  and  thought  of  the  stormy  actions  affecting  the  history 


200  THE    PARISIANS. 

of  the  world  of  which  they  had  been  the  scene — hours  when  I 
confided  to  you,  as  I  confided  to  no  other  man,  the  ambitious 
hopes  for  the  future  which  my  follies  in  the  present,  alas,  were 
hourly  tending  to  frustrate  ?" 

"  Ay,  I  remember  the  starlit  night  ;  it  was  not  in  the  gardens 
of  the  Tuileries  nor  in  the  Palais  Royal — it  was  on  the  Pont 
de  la  Concorde,  on  which  we  had  paused,  noting  the  starlight 
on  the  waters,  that  you  said,  pointing  towards  the  walls  of  the 
Corps  Le'gislatif :  '  Paul,  when  I  once  get  into  the  Chamber, 
how  long  will  it  take  me  to  become  First  Minister  of  France  ?  " 

"  Did  I  say  so  ?  Possibly  ;  but  I  was  too  young  then  for 
admission  to  the  Chamber,  and  I  fancied  I  had  so  many  years 
yet  to  spare  in  idle  loiterings  at  the  Fountain  of  Youth.  Pass 
over  these  circumstances.  You  became  in  love  with  Louise. 
I  told  you  her  troubled  history  ;  it  did  not  diminish  your  love  ; 
and  then  I  frankly  favored  your  suit.  You  set  out  for  Aix-la- 
Chapelle  a  day  or  two  afterwards  ;  then  fell  the  thunderbolt 
which  shattered  my  existence, — and  we  have  never  met  again 
till  this  hour.  You  did  not  receive  me  kindly,  Paul  Louvier." 

"  But,"  said  Louvier  falteringly ;  "  But  since  you  refer  to 
that  thunderbolt,  you  cannot  but  be  aware  that — that — " 

"  I  was  subjected  to  a  calumny  which  I  expect  those  who 
have  known  me  as  well  as  you  did  to  assist  me  now  to  refute." 

"  If  it  be  really  a  calumny." 

"Heavens,  man,  could  you  ever  doubt  that?"  cried  De 
Mauleon,  with  heat  ;  "  ever  doubt  that  I  would  rather  have 
blown  out  my  brains  than  allowed  them  even  to  conceive  the 
idea  of  a  crime  so  base  ?  " 

"  Pardon  me,"  answered  Louvier  meekly,  "  but  I  did  not 
return  to  Paris  for  months  after  you  had  disappeared.  My 
mind  was  unsettled  by  the  news  that  awaited  me  at  Aix ;  I 
sought  to  distract  it  by  travel ;  visited  Holland  and  England  ; 
and  when  I  did  return  to  Paris,  all  that  I  heard  of  your  story 
was  the  darker  side  of  it.  I  willingly  listen  to  your  own  ac- 
count. You  never  took,  or  at  least  never  accepted,  the  Duch- 

esse  de 's  jewels  ;  and  your  friend  M.  de  N.  never  sold 

them  to  one  jeweller  and  obtained  their  substitutes  in  paste 
from  another  ? " 

The  Vicomte  made  a  perceptible  effort  to  repress  a$  impulse 
of  rage ;  then  reseating  himself  in  his  chair,  and  with  that 
slight  shrug  of  the  shoulder  by  which  a  Frenchman  implies  to 
himself  that  rage  would  be  out  of  place,  replied  calmly  :  "M. 
de  N.  did  ac  you  say,  but,  of  course,  not  employed  by  me,  nor 
with  my  knowledge.  Listen  ;  the  truth  is  this — the  time  has 


THE    PARISIANS.  2OI 

come  to  tell  it  :  Before  you  left  Paris  for  Aix  I  found  myself 
on  the  brink  of  ruin.  I  had  glided  towards  it  with  my  charac- 
teristic recklessness ;  with  that  scorn  of  money  for  itself,  that 
sanguine  confidence  in  the  favor  of  fortune,  which  are  vices 
common  to  every  roi  des  viveurs.  Poor,  mock  Alexanders  that 
we  spendthrifts  are  in  youth  !  We  divide  all  we  have  among 
others,  and  when  asked  by  some  prudent  friend,  'What  have 
you  left  for  your  own  share?'  answer  'Hope.'  I  knew,  of 
course,  that  my  patrimony  was  rapidly  vanishing  ;  but  then 
my  horses  were  matchless.  I  had  enough  to  last  me  for  years 
on  their  chance  of  winning  ;  of  course  they  would  win.  But 
you  may  recollect  when  we  parted  that  I  was  troubled — cred- 
itors' bills  before  me — usurers'  bills  too, — and  you,  my  dear 
Louvier,  pressed  on  me  your  purse  ;  were  angry  when  I  re- 
fused it.  How  could  I  accept  ?  All  my  chance  for  repayment 
was  in  the  speed  of  a  horse.  I  believed  in  that  chance  for  my- 
self;  but  for  a  trustful  friend,  no..  Ask  your  own  heart  now — 
nay,  I  will  not  say  heart — ask  your  own  common-sense,  wheth- 
er a  man  who  then  put  aside  your  purse — spendthrift,  vauricn, 
though  he  might  be — was  likely  to  steal  or  accept  a  woman's 
jewels — Vas,  mon  pauvre  Louvier,  again  I  say,  '  Fors  non  mutat 
genus.' " 

Despite  the  repetition  of  the  displeasing  patrician  motto, 
such  reminiscences  of  his  visitor's  motley  character — irregular, 
turbulent,  the  reverse  of  severe,  but,  in  its  own  loose  way, 
grandly  generous  and  grandly  brave — struck  both  on  the  com- 
mon-sense and  the  heart  of  the  listener  ;  and  the  Frenchman 
recognized  the  Frenchman.  Louvier  doubted  De  Mauleon's 
word  no  more,  bowed  his  head,  and  said  :  "Victor  de  Mau- 
leon,  I  have  wronged  you — go  on." 

"  On  the  day  after  you  left  for  Aix  came  that  horse-race  on 
which  my  all  depended  :  it  was  lost.  The  loss  absorbed  the 
whole  of  my  remaining  fortune;  it  absorbed  about  20,000 
francs  in  excess,  a  debt  of  honor  to  De  N.,  whom  you  called 
my  friend  :  friend  he  was  not  ;  imitator,  follower,  flatterer,  yes. 
Still  I  deemed  him  enough  my  friend  to  say  to  him  :  '  Give  me 
a  little  time  to  pay  the  money  ;  I  must  sell  my  stud,  or  write  to 
my  only  living  relation  from  whom  I  have  expectations.'  You 
remember  that  relation,  Jacques  de  Mauleon,  old  and  unmar- 
ried. By  De  N.'s  advice  I  did  write  to  my  kinsman.  No- 
answer  came  ;  but  what  did  come  were  fresh  bills  from  cred- 
itors. I  then  calmly  calculated  my  assets.  The  sale  of  my 
stud  and  effects  might  suffice  to  pay  every  sou  that  I  owed,  in- 
clud'ng  my  debt  to  Pe  N.;  but  that  was  not  quite  certain  ;  at 


202  THE    PARISIANS. 

all  events,  when  the  debts  were  paid  I  should  be  beggared. 
Well,  you  know,  Louvier,  what  we  Frenchmen  are  :  how  Na- 
ture has  denied  to  us  the  quality  of  patience  ;  how  involunta- 
rily suicide  presents  itself  to  us  when  hope  is  lost, — and  suicide 
seemed  to  me  here  due  to  honor,  viz.,  to  the  certain  discharge 
of  my  liabilities  ;  for  the  stud  and  effects  of  Victor  de  Mauleon, 
roi  dcs  vtveurs,  would  command  much  higher  prices  if  he  died 
like  Cato  than  if  he  ran  away  from  his  fate  like  Pompey. 
Doubtless  De  N.  guessed  my  intention  from  my  words  or  my 
manner ;  but  on  the  very  day  in  which  I  had  made  all  prepa- 
rations for  quitting  the  world  from  which  sunshine  had  van- 
ished, I  received  in  a  blank  envelope  banknotes  amounting  to 
70,000  francs,  and  the  post-mark  on  the  envelope  was  that  of 
the  town  of  Fontainebleau,  near  to  which  lived  my  rich  kins- 
man Jacques.  I  took  it  for  granted  that  the  sum  came  from 
him.  Displeased  as  he  might  have  been  with  my  wild  career, 
still  I  was  his  natural  heir.  The  sum  sufficed  to  pay  my  debt 
to  De  N.,  to  all  creditors,  and  leave  a  surplus.  My  san- 
guine spirits  returned.  I  would  sell  my  stud ;  I  would  re- 
trench, reform,  go  to  my  kinsman  as  the  penitent  son.  The 
fatted  calf  would  be  killed,  and  I  should  wear  purple  yet. 
You  understand  that,  Louvier?" 

"Yes,  yes  ;  so  like  you.     Go  on." 

"  Now,  then,  came  the  thunderbolt  !  Ah  !  in  those  sunny 
days  you  used  to  envy  me  for  being  so  spoilt  by  women.  The 

Duchesse  de had  conceived  for  me  one  of  those  romantic 

fancies  which  women  without  children,  and  with  ample  leisure 
for  the  waste  of  affection,  do  sometimes  conceive  for  very  or- 
dinary men  younger  than  themselves,  but  in  whom  they  im- 
agine they  discover  sinners  to  reform  or  heroes  to  exalt.  I 
had  been  honored  by  some  notes  from  the  Duchesse  in  which 
this  sort  of  romance  was  owned.  I  had  not  replied  to  them 
encouragingly.  In  truth,  my  heart  was  then  devoted  to  another, 
the  English  girl  whom  I  had  wooed  as  my  wife  ;  who,  despite 
her  parents'  retractation  of  their  consent  to  our  union  when 
they  learned  how  dilapidated  were  my  fortunes,  pledged  herself 
to  remain  faithful  to  me,  and  wait  for  better  days."  Again  De 
Mauleon  paused  in  suppressed  emotion,  and  then  went  on  hur- 
riedly :  "No,  the  Duchesse  did  not  inspire  me  with  guilty  pas- 
sion, but  she  did  inspire  me  with  an  affectionate  respect.  I 
felt  that  she  was  by  nature  meant  to  be  a  great  and  noble 
creature,  and  was,  nevertheless,  at  that  moment  wholly 
misled  from  her  right  place  amongst  women  by  an  illu- 
sion of  mere  imagination  about  a  man  who  happened  then  to 


THE    PARISIANS.  203 

be  very  much  talked  about,  and  perhaps  resembled  some  Lo- 
thario in  the  novels  which  she  was  always  reading.  We  lodged, 
as  you  may  remember,  in  the  same  house." 

"  Yes,  I  remember.  I  remember  how  you  once  took  me  to 
a  great  ball  given  by  the  Duchesse  ;  how  handsome  I  thought 
her,  though  no  longer  young  ;  and  you  say  right — how  I  did 
envy  you  that  night  !  " 

"  From  that  night,  however,  the  Due,  not  unnaturally,  be- 
came jealous.  He  reproved  the  Duchesse  for  her  too  amiable 
manner  towards  a  mauvais  sujet  like  myself,  and  forbade  her  in 
future  to  receive  my  visits.  It  was  then  that  these  notes  be- 
came frequent  and  clandestine,  brought  to  me  by  her  maid, 
who  took  back  my  somewhat  chilling  replies. 

"But  to  proceed.  In  the  flush  of  my  high  spirits,  and  in  the 
insolence  of  magnificent  ease  with  which  1  paid  De  N.  the 
trifle  I  owed  him,  something  he  said  made  my  heart  stand  still. 
I  told  him  that  the  money  received  had  come  from  Jacques  de 
Mauleon,  and  that  I  was  going  down  to  his  house  that  day  to 
thank  him.  He  replied,  '  Don't  go  ;  it  did  not  come  from  hint.' 
'  It  must  ;  see  the  postmark  of  the  envelope — Fontainebleau.* 
'  I  posted  it  at  Fontainebleau.'  'You  sent  me  the  money,  you  !' 
'  Nay,  that  is  beyond  my  means.  Where  it  came  from,"  said 
this  miserable,  '  much  more  may  yet  come  ';  and  then  he  nar- 
rated, with  that  cynicism  so  in  vogue  in  Paris,  how  he  had  told 
the  Duchesse  (who  knew  him  as  my  intimate  associate)  of  my 
stress  of  circumstance,  of  his  fear  that  I  meditated  something 
desperate  ;  how  she  gave  him  the  jewels  to  sell  and  to  substi- 
tute ;  how,  in  order  to  baffle  my  suspicion  and  frustrate  my  scru- 
ples, he  had  gone  to  Fontainebleau  and  there  posted  the  envelope 
containing  the  banknotes,  out  of  which  he  secured  for  himself  the 
payment  he  deemed  otherwise  imperilled.  De  N.  having  made 
this  confession,  hurried  down  the  stairs  swiftly  enough  to  save 
himself  a  descent  by  the  window.  Do  you  believe  me  still  ?" 

''  Yes  ;  you  were  always  so  hot-blooded,  and  De  N.  so  con- 
siderate of  self,  I  believe  you  implicitly." 

"Of  course  I  did  what  any  man  would  do  ;  I  wrote  a  hasty 
letter  to  the  Duchesse,  stating  all  my  gratitude  for  an  act  of 
pure  friendship  so  noble  ;  urging  also  the  reasons  that  rendered 
it  impossible  for  a  man  of  honor  to  profit  by  such  an  act.  Un- 
happily, what  had  been  sent  was  paid  away  ere  I  knew  the 
facts  ;  but  I  could  not  bear  the  thought  of  life  till  my  debt  to 
her  was  acquitted  ;  in  short,  Louvier,  conceive  for  yourself  the 
sort  of  letter  which  I — which  any  honest  ma.n— would  write, 
under  circumstances  50  cruel," 


204  THE    PARISIANS. 

"H'm  !  "  grunted  Louvier. 

"  Something,  however,  in  my  letter,  conjoined  with  what 
De  N.  had  told  her  as  to  my  state  of  mind,  alarmed  this  poor 
woman,  who  -had  deigned  to  take  in  me  an  interest  so  little  de- 
served. Her  reply,  very  agitated  and  incoherent,  was  brought 
to  me  by  her  maid,  who  had  taken  my  letter,  and  by  whom,  as 
I  before  said,  our  correspondence  had  been  of  late  carried  on. 
In  her  reply  she  implored  me  to  decide,  to  reflect  on  nothing 
till  I  had  seen  her  ;  stated  how  the  rest  of  her  day  was  pre- 
engaged  ;  and  since  to  visit  her  openly  had  been  made  impossi- 
ble by  the  Due's  interdict,  enclosed  the  key  to  the  private 
entrance  to  her  rooms,  by  which  I  could  gain  an  interview  with 
her  at  ten  o'clock  that  night,  an  hour  at  which  the  Due  had 
informed  her  he  should  be  out  till  late  at  his  club.  Now,  how- 
ever great  the  indiscretion  which  the  Duchesse  here  committed, 
it  is  due  to  her  memory  to  say  that  I  am  convinced  that  her 
dominant  idea  was  that  I  meditated  self-destruction  ;  that  no 
time  was  to  be  lost  to  save  me  from  it ;  and  for  the  rest  she 
trusted  to  the  influence  which  a  woman's  tears  and  adjurations 
and  reasonings  have  over  even  the  strongest  and  hardest  men. 
It  is  only  one  of  those  coxcombs  in  whom  the  world  of  fashion 
abounds  who  could  have  admitted  a  thought  that  would  have 
done  wrong  to  the  impulsive,  generous,  imprudent  eagerness  of 
a  woman  to  be  in  time  to  save  from  death  by  his  own  hand  a 
fellow-being  for  whom  she  had  conceived  an  interest.  I  so 
construed  her  note.  At  the  hour  she  named  I  admitted  myself 
into  the  rooms  by  the  key  she  sent.  You  know  the  rest  :  I 
was  discovered  by  the  Due  and  by  the  agents  of  police  in  the 
cabinet  in  which  the  Duchesse's  jewels  were  kept.  The  key  that 
admitted  me  into  the  cabinet  was  found  in  my  possession." 

De  Mauleon's  voice  here  faltered,  and  he  covered  his  face 
with  a  convulsive  hand.  Almost  in  the  same  breath  he  recov- 
ered from  visible  sigiTs  of  emotion,  and  went  on  with  a  half- 
laugh. 

"  Ah  !  you  envied  me,  did  you,  for  being  spoiled  by  the 
women  ?  Enviable  position  indeed  was  mine  that  night.  The 
Due  obeyed  the  first  impulse  of  his  wrath.  He  imagined  that 
I  had  dishonored  him  :  he  would  dishonor  me  in  return. 
Easier  to  his  pride,  too,  a  charge  against  the  robber  of  jewels, 
than  against  a  favored  lover  of  his  wife.  But  when  I,  obeying 
the  first  necessary  obligation  of  honor,  invented  on  the  spur  of 
the  moment  the  story  by  which  the  Duchesse's  reputation  was 
cleared  from  suspicion,  accused  myself  of  a  frantic  passion  and 
the  trickery  of  a  fabricated  key,  the  Due's,  true  nature  of  gctp 


THE    PARISIANS.  20$ 

tilhomnie  Came  back.  He  retracted  the  charge  which  he  could 
scarcely  eveu_at  the  first  blush  have  felt  to  be  well-founded  ; 
and  as  the  sole  charge  left  was  simply  that  which  men  commc 
ilfaut  do  not  refer  to  criminal  courts  and  police  investigations, 
I  was  left  to  make  my  bow  unmolested  and  and  retreat  to  my 
own  rooms,  awaiting  there  such  communications  as  the  Due 
might  deem  it  right  to  convey  to  me  on  the  morrow. 

"  But  on  the  morrow  the  Due,  with  his  wife  and  personal 
suite,  quitted  Paris  en  route  for  Spain  ;  the  bulk  of  his  retinue, 
including  the  offending  abigail,  was  discharged  ;  and,  whether 
through  these  servants  or  through  the  police,  the  story  before 
evening  was  in  the  mouth  of  every  gossip  in  club  or  cafe — ex- 
aggerated, distorted,  to  my  ignominy  and  shame.  My  detec- 
tion in  the  cabinet,  the  sale  of  the  jewels,  the  substitution  of 
paste  by  De  N.,  who  was  known  to  be  my  servile  imitator,  and 
reputed  to  be  my  abject  tool ;  all  my  losses  on  the  turf,  my 
debts, — all  these  scattered  fibres  of  flax  were  twisted  together 
in  a  rope  that  would  have  hanged  a  dog  with  a  much  better 
name  than  mine.  If  some  disbelieved  that  I  could  be  a  thief, 
few  of  those  who  should  have  known  me  best  held  me  guiltless 
of  a  baseness  almost  equal  to  that  of  theft — the  exaction  of 
profit  from  the  love  of  a  foolish  woman." 

"But  you  could  have  told  your  own  tale,  shown  the  letters 
you  had  received  from  the  Duchesse,  and  cleared  away  every 
stain  on  your  honor." 

"  How  ?  Shown  her  letters,  ruined  her  character,  even 
stated  that  she  had  caused  her  jewels  to  be  sold  for  the  uses 
of  a  young  roue  !  Ah  no,  Louvier  !  I  would  rather  have  gone 
to  the  galleys." 

"  H'm  !  "  grunted  Louvier  again. 

"  The  Due  generously  gave  me  better  means  of  righting  my- 
self. Three  days  after  he  quitted  Paris  I  received  a  letter  from 
him, .very  politely  written,  expressing  his  great  regret  that  any 
words  implying  the  suspicion  too  monstrous  and  absurd  to  need 
refutation  should  have  escaped  him  in  the  surprise  of  the  mo- 
ment ;  but  stating  that  since  the  offence  I  had  owned  was  one 
that  he  could  not  overlook,  he  was  under  the  necessity  of  ask- 
ing the  only  reparation  I  could  make.  That  if  it '  deranged  ' 
me  to  quit  Paris,  he  would  return  to  it  for  the  purpose  re- 
quired ;  but  that  if  I  would  give  him  the  additional  satisfac- 
tion of  suiting  his  convenience,  he  should  prefer  to  await  my 
arrival  at  Bayonne,  where  he  was  detained  by  the  indisposition 
of  the  Duchesse." 

"You  have  still  that  letter  ?"  asked  Louvier  quickly. 


206  THE    PARISIANS. 

"  Yes  ;  with  other  more  important  documents  constituting 
what  I  may  call  my  pieces  justificatives. 

"I  need  not  say  that  I  replied  stating  the  time  at  which  I 
should  arrive  at  Bayonne,  and  the  hotel  at  which  I  should 
await  the  Due's  command.  Accordingly  I  set  out  that  same 
day,  gained  the  hotel  named,  despatched  to  the  Due  the  an- 
nouncement of  my  arrival,  and  was  considering  how  I  should 
obtain  a  second  in  some  officer  quartered  in  the  town — for  my 
soreness  and  resentment  at  the  marked  coldness  of  my  former 
acquaintances  at  Paris  had  forbidden  me  to  seek  a  second 
among  any  of  that  faithless  number — when  the  Due  himself 
entered  my  room.  Judge  of  my  amaze  at  seeing  him  in  per- 
son ;  judge  how  much  greater  the  amaze  became  when  he  ad- 
vanced with  a  grave  but  cordial  smile,  offering  me  his  hand  ! 

"  M.  de  Mauleon,"  said  he,  '  since  I  wrote  to  you,  facts  have 
become  known  to  me  which  would  induce  me  rather  to  ask  your 
friendship  than  call  on  you  to  defend  your  life.  Madame  la 
Duchesse  has  been  seriously  ill  since  we  left  Paris,  and  I  re- 
frained from  all  explanations  likely  to  add  to  the  hysterical  ex- 
citement under  which  she  was  suffering.  It  is  only  this  day 
that  her  mind  became  collected,  and  she  herself  then  gave  me 
her  entire  confidence.  Monsieur,  she  insisted  on  my  reading 
the  letters  that  you  addressed  to  her.  Those  letters,  Monsieur, 
suffice  to  prove  your  innocence  of  any  design  against  my  peace. 
The  Duchesse  has  so  candidly  avowed  her  own  indiscretion, 
has  so  clearly  established  the  distinction  between  indiscretion 
and  guilt,  that  I  have  granted  her  my  pardon  with  a  lightened 
heart  and  a  firm  belief  that  we  shall  be  happier  together  than 
we  have  been  yet.' 

"  The  Due  continued  his  journey  the  next  day,  but  he  sub- 
sequently honored  me  with  two  or  three  letters  written  as  friend 
to  friend,  and  in  which  you  will  find  repeated  the  substance  of 
what  I  have  stated  him  to  say  by  word  of  mouth." 

"  But  why  not  then  have  returned  to  Paris  ?  Such  letters,  at 
least,  you  might  have  shown,  and  in  braving  your  calumniators 
you  would  have  soon  lived  them  down." 

"  You  forget  that  I  was  a  ruined  man.  When,  by  the  sale 
of  my  horses,  etc.,  my  debts,  including  what  was  owed  to  the 
Duchesse,  which  I  remitted  to  the  Due,  were  discharged,  the 
balance  left  to  me  would  not  have  maintained  me  a  week  at  Paris. 
Besides,  I  felt  so  sore,  so  indignant.  Paris  and  the  Parisians  had 
become  to  me  so  hateful.  And  to  crown  all,  that  girl,  that  En- 
glish girl  whom  I  had  so  loved,  on  whose  fidelity  I  had  so 
counted — well,  I  received  a  letter  from  her,  gently  but  coldly 


THE    PARISIANS.  2O^ 

bidding  me  farewell  forever.  I  do  not  think  she  believed  me 
guilty  of  theft,  but  doubtless  the  offence  I  had  confessed,  in 
order  to  save  the  honor  of  the  Duchesse,  could  but  seem  to  her 
all-sufficient !  Broken  in  spirit,  bleeding  at  heart  to  the  very 
core,  still  self-destruction  was  no  longer  to  be  thought  of.  I 
would  not  die  till  I  could  once  more  lift  up  my  head  as  Victor 
de  Mauleon." 

"  What  then  became  of  you,  my  poor  Victor  ? " 

"Ah  !  that  is  a  tale  too  long  for  recital.  I  have  played  so 
many  parts  that  I  am  puzzled  to  recognize  my  own  identity 
with  the  Victor  de  Mauleon  whose  name  I  abandoned.  I  have 
been  a  soldier  in  Algeria,  and  won  my  cross  on  the  field  of 
battle — that  cross  and  my  colonel's  letter  are  among  my  pieces 
justificatives.  I  have  been  a  gold-digger  in  California,  a  specu- 
lator in  New  York,  of  late  in  callings  obscure  and  humble.  But 
in  all  my  adventures,  under  whatever  name,  I  have  earned 
testimonials  of  probity,  could  manifestations  of  so  vulgar  a 
virtue  be  held  of  account  by  the  enlightened  people  of  Paris. 
I  come  now  to  a  close.  The  Vicomte  de  Mauleon  is  about  to 
reappear  in  Paris,  and  the  first  to  whom  he  announces  that  sub- 
lime avatar  is  Paul  Louvier.  When  settled  in  some  modest 
apartment,  I  shall  place  in  your  hands  my  pieces  justificatives.  I 
shall  ask  you  to  summon  my  surviving  relations  or  connections, 
among  which  are  the  Counts  de  Vandemar,  Beauvilliers,  Des 
Passy,  and  the  Marquis  de  Rochebriant,  with  any  friends  of  your 
own  who  sway  the  opinions  of  the  Great  World.  You  will  place 
my  justification  before  them,  expressing  your  own  opinion  that 
it  suffices  ;  in  a  word,  you  will  give  me  the  sanction  of  your 
countenance.  For  the  rest  I  trust  to  myself  to  propitiate  the 
kindly  and  to  silence  the  calumnious.  I  have  spoken  ;  what 
say  you  ?" 

"  You  overrate  my  power  in  society.  Why  not  appeal  your- 
self to  your  high-born  relations  ?  " 

"  No,  Louvier  ;  I  have  too  well  considered  the  case  to  alter  my 
decision.  It  is  through  you,  and  you  alone,  that  I  shall 
approach  my  relations.  My  vindicator  must  be  a  man  of  whom 
the  vulgar  cannot  say,  'Oh,  he's  a  relation,  a  fellow-noble: 
those  aristocrats  whitewash  each  other.'  It  must  be  an  authority 
with  the  public  at  large — a.  bourgeois,  a  millionnaire,  a  roi  de  la 
Bourse.  I  choose  you,  and  that  ends  the  discussion." 

Louvier  could  not  help  laughing  good-humoredly  at  the  sang- 
froid'of  the  Vicomte.  He  was  once  more  under  the  domination 
of  a  man  who  had  for  a  time  dominated  all  with  whom  he  lived. 

De  Mauleon  continued  :     "  Your  task  will  be  easy  enough. 


2o8  THE   PAktSlANS. 

Society  changes  rapidly  at  Paris.  Few  persons  now  exist  who 
have  more  than  a  vague  recollection  of  the  circumstances 
which  can  be  so  easily  explained  to  my  complete  vindication 
when  the  vindication  comes  from  a  man  of  your  solid  respect- 
ability and  social  influence.  Besides,  I  have  political  objects 
in  view.  You  are  a  Liberal ;  the  Vandemars  and  Rochebriants 
are  Legitimists.  I  prefer  a  godfather  on  the  Liberal  side. 
Pardieu,  man  ami,  why  such  coquettish  hesitation  ?  Said  and 
done.  Your  hand  on  it." 

"  There  is  my  hand,  then.     I  will  do  all  I  can  to  help  you." 

"  I  know  you  will,  old  friend  ;  and  you  do  both  kindly  and 
wisely."  Here  De  Mauleon  cordially  pressed  the  hand  he  held, 
and  departed. 

On  gaining  the  street,  the  Vicomte  glided  into  a  neighboring 
courtyard,  in  which  he  had  left  his  fiacre,  and  bade  the  coach- 
man drive  towards  the  Boulevard  Sebastopol.  On  the  way,  he 
took  from  a  small  bag  that  he  had  left  in  the  carriage  the  flaxen 
wig  and  pale  whiskers  which  distinguished  M.  Lebeau,  and 
mantled  his  elegant  habiliments  in  an  immense  cloak,  which  he 
had  also  left  in  the  fiacre.  Arrived  at  the  Boulevard  Sebastopol 
he  drew  up  the  collar  of  the  cloak  so  as  to  conceal  much  of 
his  face,  stopped  the  driver,  paid  him  quickly,  and,  bag  in  hand, 
hurried  on  to  another  stand  of  fiacres  at  a  little  distance,  en- 
tered one,  and  drove  to  the  Faubourg  Montmartre,  dismissed 
the  vehicle  at  the  mouth  of  a  street  not  far  from  M.  Lebeau's 
office,  and  gained  on  foot  the  private  side-door  of  the  house, 
let  himself  in  with  his  latch-key,  entered  the  private  room 
on  the  inner  side  of  his  office,  locked  the  door,  and  pro- 
ceeded leisurely  to  exchange  the  brilliant  appearance  which 
the  Vicomte  de  Mauleon  had  borne  on  his  visit  to  the  million- 
naire,  for  the  sober  raiment  and  bourgcoise  air  of  M.  Lebeau, 
the  letter-writer. 

Then  after  locking  up  his  former  costume  in  a  drawer  of  his 
secretaire,  he  sat  himself  down  and  wrote  the  following  lines: 

"  DEAR  M.  GEORGES  : 

"  I  advise  you  strongly,  from  information  that  has  just  reached 
me;  to  lose  no  time  in  pressing  M.  Savarin  to  repay  the  sum  I 
recommended  you  to  lend  htm,  and  for  which  you  hold  his  bill 
due  this  day.  The  scandal  of  legal  measures  against  a  writer 
so  distinguished  should  be  avoided  if  possible.  He  will  avoid  it, 
and  get  the  money  somehow.  But  he  must  be  urgently  pressed. 
If  you  neglect  this  warning,  my  responsibility  is  past. — Agrtez 
mes  sentimens  les  plus  sindrcs.  J.  L." 


THE  PARISIANS.  209 


CHAPTER  II. 

THE  Marquis  de  Rochebriant  is  no  longer  domiciled  in  an 
attic  in  the  gloomy  faubourg.  See  him  now  in  a  charming 
appartement  de  gar f  on  au  premier  in  the  Rue  du  Helder,  close 
by  the  promenades  and  haunts  of  the  mode.  It  had  been  fur- 
nished and  inhabited  by  a  brilliant  young  provincial  from  Bor- 
deaux, who,  coming  into  an  inheritance  of  100,000  francs,  had 
rushed  up  to  Paris  to  enjoy  himself,  and  make  his  million  at 
the  Bourse.  He  had  enjoyed  himself  thoroughly — he  had  been 
a  darling  of  the  demi-monde.  He  had  been  a  successful  and  an 
inconstant  gallant.  Zelie  had  listened  to  his  vows  of  eternal 
love,  and  his  offers  of  unlimited  cachemires.  Desiree,  succeed- 
ing Zelie,  had  assigned  to  him  her  whole  heart,  or  all  that  was 
left  of  it,  in  gratitude  for  the  ardor  of  his  passion,  and  the  dia- 
monds and  coupe  which  accompanied  and  attested  the  ardor. 
The  superb  Hortense,  supplanting  Desiree,  received  his  visits 
in  the  charming  apartment  he  furnished1  for  her,  and  entertained 
him  and  his  friends  at  the  most  delicate  little  suppers,  for  the 
moderate  sum  of  4000  francs  a  month.  Yes,  he  had  enjoyed 
himself  thoroughly,  but  he  had  not  made  a  million  at  the  Bourse. 
Before  the  year  was  out,  the  100,000  francs  were  gone.  Com- 
pelled to  return  to  his  province,  and  by  his  hard-hearted  rela- 
tions ordained,  on  penalty  of  starvation,  to  marry  the  daughter 
of  an  avoue",  for  the  sake  of  her  dot  and  a  share  in  the  hated 
drudgery  of  the  avoue  s  business — his  apartment  was  to  be  had 
for  a  tenth  part  of  the  original  cost  of  its  furniture.  A  certain 
Chevalier  de  Finisterre,  to  whom  Louvier  had  introduced  the 
Marquis  as  a  useful  fellow,  who  knew  Paris,  and  would  save 
him  from  being  cheated,  had  secured  this  bijou  of  an  apartment 
for  Alain,  and  concluded  the  bargain  for  the  bagatelle  of  ^500. 
The  Chevalier  took  the  same  advantageous  occasion  to  pur- 
chase the  English  well-bred  hack  and  the  neat  coupe  and 
horses  which  the  Bordelais  was  also  necessitated  to  dispose  of. 
These  purchases  made,  the  Marquis  had  some  5000  francs 
(^£200)  left  out  of  Louvier' s  premium  of  ^1000.  The  Mar- 
quis, however,  did  not  seem  alarmed  or  dejected  by  the  sudden 
diminution  of  capital  so  expeditiously  effected.  The  easy  life 
thus  commenced  seemed  to  him  too  natural  to  be  fraught  with 
danger  ;  and  easy  though  it  was,  it  was  a  very  simple  and  mod- 
est sort  of  life  compared  with  that  of  many  other  men  of  his 
age  to  whom  Enguerrand  had  introduced  him,  though  most  of 
them  had  an  income  less  than  his,  and  few,  indeed,  of  them 


2IO  THE    PARISIANS. 

were  his  equals  in  dignity  of  birth.  Could  a  Marquis  de  Roche- 
briant,  if  he  lived  at  Paris  at  all,  give  less  than  3000  francs  a 
year  for  his  apartment,  or  mount  a  more  humble  establishment 
than  that  confined  to  a  valet  and  a  tiger,  two  horses  for  his 
coupe  and  one  for  the  saddle?  "Impossible,"  said  the  Chev- 
alier de  Finisterre  decidedly  ;  and  the  Marquis  bowed  to  so 
high  an  authority.  He  thought  within  himself,  "If  I  find  an  a 
few  months  that  I  am  exceeding  my  means,  I  can  but  dispose 
of  my  rooms  and  my  horses,  and  return  to  Rochebriant  a  richer 
man  by  far  than  I  left  it." 

To  say  truth,  the  brilliant  seductions  of  Paris  had  already 
produced  their  effect,  not  only  on  the  habits,  but  on  the  char- 
acter and  cast  of  thought,  which  the  young  noble  had  brought 
with  him  from  the  feudal  and  melancholy  Bretagne. 

Warmed  by  the  kindness  with  which,  once  introduced  by  his 
popular  kinsmen,  he  was  everywhere  received,  the  reserve  or 
shyness  which  is  the  compromise  between  the  haughtiness  of 
self-esteem  and  the  painful  doubt  of  appreciation  by  others, 
rapidly  melted  away.  He  caught  insensibly  the  polished  tone, 
at  once  so  light  and  so  cordial,  of  his  new_-made  friends.  With 
all  the  efforts  of  the  democrats  to  establish  equality  and  fra- 
ternity, it  is  among  the  aristocrats  that  equality  and  fraternity 
are  most  to  be  found.  All  gentilshommes  in  the  best  society  are 
equals  ;  and  whether  they  embrace  or  fight  each  other,  they 
embrace  or  fight  as  brothers  of  the  same  family.  But  with  the 
tone  of  manners,  Alain  de  Rochebriant  imbibed  still  more 
insensibly  the  lore  of  that  philosophy  which  young  idlers  in 
pursuit  of  pleasure  teach  to  each  other.  Probably  in  all  civilized 
and  luxurious  capitals  that  philosophy  is  very  much  the  same 
among  the  same  class  of  idlers  at  the  same' age  ;  probably  it 
flourishes  in  Pekin  not  less  than  at  Paris.  If  Paris  has  the 
credit,  or  discredit,  of  it  more  than  any  other  capital,  it  is 
because  in  Paris  more  than  in  any  other  capital  it  charms  the 
eye  by  grace  and  amuses  the  ear  by  wit.  A  philosophy  which 
takes  the  things  of  this  life  very  easily  ;  which  has  a  smile  and 
a  shrug  of  the  shoulders  for  any  pretender  to  the  heroic  ;  which 
subdivides  the  wealth  of  passion  into  the  pocket-money  of 
caprices  ;  is  always  in  or  out  of  love,  ankle-deep,  never  ventur- 
ing a  plunge  ;  which,  light  of  heart  as  of  tongue,  turns  "the 
solemn  plausibilities  "  of  earth  into  subjects  for  epigrams  and 
bons  mots — it  jests  at  loyalty  to  kings,  and  turns  up  its  nose  at 
enthusiasm  for  commonwealths  ;  it  abjures  all  grave  studies  ; 
it  shuns  all  profound  emotions.  We  have  crowds  of  such 
philosophers  in  London  ;  but  there  they  are  less  noticed,  because 


THE   PARISIANS.  211 

the  agreeable  attributes  of  the  sect  are  there  dimmed  and  obfus- 
cated. It  is  not  a  philosophy  that  flowers  richly  in  the  reek 
of  fogs,  and  in  the  tee,th  of  east  winds  ;  it  wants  for  full  develop- 
ment the  light  atmosphere  of  Paris.  Now  this  philosophy 
began  rapidly  to  exercise  its  charms  upon  Alain  de  Rochebriant. 
Even  in  the  society  of  professed  Legitimists,  he  felt  that  faith 
had  deserted  the  Legitimist  creed  or  taken  refuge  only  as  a 
companion  of  religion  in  the  hearts  of  high-born  women  and  a 
small  minority  of  priests.  His  chivalrous  loyalty  still  strug- 
gled to  keep  its  ground,  but  its  roots  were  very  much  loosened. 
He  saw — for  his  natural  intellect  was  keen — that  the  cause  of 
the  Bourbon  was  hopeless,  at  least  for  the  present,  because  it 
had  ceased,  at  least  for  the  present,  to  be  a  cause.  His  political 
creed  thus  shaken,  with  it  was  shaken  also  that  adherence  to 
the  past  which  had  stifled  his  ambition  of  a  future.  That 
ambition  began  to  breathe  and  to  stir,  though  he  owned  it  not 
to  others  *  though,  as  yet,  he  scarce  distinguished  its  whispers, 
much  less  directed  its  movements  towards  any  definite  object. 
Meanwhile,  all  that  he  knew  of  his  ambition  was  the  new-born 
desire  for  social  success. 

We  see  him,  then,  under  the  quick  operation  of  this  change 
in  sentiments  and  habits,  reclined  on  the  fauteuil  before  his 
fireside,  and  listening  to  his  college  friend,  of  whom  we  have 
so  long  lost  sight,  Frederic  Lemercier.  Frederic  had  break- 
fasted with  Alain — a  breakfast  such  as  might  have  contented 
the  author  of  the  "  Almanach  des  Gourmands,"  and  provided 
from  the  Cafe  Anglais.  Frederic  has  just  thrown  aside  his 
regalia. 

"  Pardieu,  my  dear  Alain  !  If  Louvier  has  no  sinister  object 
in  the  generosity  of  his  dealings  with  you,  he  will  have  raised 
himself  prodigiously  in  my  estimation.  I  shall  forsake,  in  his 
favor,  my  allegiance  to  Duplessis,  though  that  clever  fellow 
has  just  made  a  wondrous  coiip  in  the  Egyptians,  and  I  gain 
40,000  francs  by  having  followed  his  advice.  But  if  Duplessis 
has  a  head  as  long  as  Louvier's,  he  certainly  has  not  an  equal 
greatness  of  soul.  Still,  my  dear  friend,  will  you  pardon  me, 
if  I  speak  frankly,  and  in  the  way  of  a  warning  homily  ?  " 

"  Speak  ;  you  cannot  oblige  me  more." 

"Well,  then,  I  know  that  you  can  no  more  live  at  Paris  in 
the  way  you  are  doing,  or  mean  to  do,  without  some  fresh  ad- 
dition to  your  income,  than  a  lion  could  live  in  the  Jardin  des 
Plantes  upon  an  allowance  of  two  mice  a  week." 

"I  don't  see  that.  Deducting  what  I  pay  to  my  aunt — and 
I  cannot  get  her  to  take  more  than  6000  francs  a  year — I  have 


212  THE    PARISIANS. 

700  napoleons  left,  net  and  clear.  My  rooms  and  stables  are 
equipped,  and  I  have  2500  francs  in  hand.  On  700  napoleons 
a  year,  I  calculate  that  I  can  very  easily  live  as  I  do  ;  and  if  I 
fail — well,  I  must  return  to  Rochebriant.  Seven  hundred  na- 
poleons a  year  will  be  a  magnificent  rental  there." 

Frederic  shook  his  head. 

"  You  do  not  know  how  one  expense  leads  to  another.  Above 
all,  you  do  not  calculate  the  chief  part  of  one's  expenditure — 
the  unforeseen.  You  will  play  at  the  Jockey  Club  and  lose 
half  your  income  in  a  night." 

"  I  shall  never  touch  a  card." 

"  So  you  say  now,  innocent  as  a  lamb  of  the  force  of  example. 
At  all  events,  beau  seigneur,  I  presume  you  are  not  going  to  re- 
suscitate the  part  of  the  Ermite  de  la  Chaussee  d" Antin ;  and 
the  fair  Parisiennes  are  demons  of  extravagance." 

<l  Demons  whom  I  shall  not  court." 

"  Did  I  say  you  would?  They  will  court  you.  Before  another 
month  has  flown  you  will  be  inundated  with  billets-doux." 

"It  is  not  a  shower  that  will  devastate  my  humble  harvest. 
But,  mon  cher,  we  are  falling  upon  very  gloomy  topics.  Laissez- 
mot  tranquillc  in  my  illusions,  if  illusions  they  be.  Ah,  you 
cannot  conceive  what  a  new  life  opens  to  the  man  who,  like 
myself,  has  passed  the  dawn  of  his  youth  in  privation  and  fear, 
when  he  suddenly  acquires  competence  and  hope.  If  it  lasts 
only  a  year,  it  will  be  something  to  say  '  Vixi.'" 

"Alain,"  said  Frederic  very  earnestly,  "believe  me,  I  should 
not  have  assumed  the  ungracious  and  inappropriate  task  of 
Mentor,  if  it  were  only  a  year's  experience  at  stake,  or  if  you 
•were  in  the  position  of  men  like  myself — free  from  the  en- 
cumbrance of  a  great  name  and  heavily  mortgaged  lands. 
Should  you  fail  to  pay  regularly  the  interest  due  to  Louvier,  he 
has  the  power  to  put  up  at  public  auction,  and  there  to  buy  in 
for  himself,  your  chateau  and  domain." 

"  I  am  aware  that  in  strict  law  he  would  have  such  power, 
though  I  doubt  if  he  would  use  it.  Louvier  is  certainly  a  much 
better  and  more  generous  fellow  than  I  could  have  expected  ; 
and,  if  I  believe  De  Finisterre,  he  has  taken  a  sincere  liking  to 
me,  on  account  of  affection  to  my  poor  father.  But  why 
should  not  the  interest  be  paid  regularly?  The  revenues  from 
Rochebriant  are  not  likely  to  decrease,  and  the  charge  on  them 
is  lightened  by  the  contract  with  Louvier.  And  I  will  confide 
to  you  a  hope  I  entertain  of  a  very  large  addition  to  my  rental." 

"How?" 

"A  chief  part  of  my  rental  is  derived  from  forests,  and   De 


THE    PARISIANS.  213 

Finisterre  has  heard  of  a  capitalist  who  is  disposed  to  make  a 
contract  for  their  sale  at  the  fall  this  year,  and  may  probably 
extend  it  to  future  years,  at  a  price  far  exceeding  that  which  I 
have  hitherto  obtained." 

"  Pray  be  cautious.  De  Finisterre  is  not  a  man  I  should 
implicitly  trust  in  such  matters." 

"  Why_?  Do  you  know  anything  against  him  ?  He  is  in  the 
best  society — perfect  gentilhomme — and,  as  his  name  may  tell 
you,  a  fellow-Breton.  You  yourself  allow,  and  so  does  Enguer- 
rand,  that  the  purchases  he  made  for  me — in  th'is  apartment, 
my  horses,  etc. — are  singularly  advantageous." 

"Quite  true  ;  the  Chevalier  is  reputed  sharp  and  clever,  is 
said  to  be  very  amusing,  and  a  first-rate  piquet-\)\a.yQr.  I  don't 
know  him  personally.  I  am  not  in  his  set.  I  have  no  valid 
reason  to  disparage  his  character,  nor  do  I  conjecture  any 
motive  he  could  have  to  injure  or  mislead  you.  Still,  I  say, 
be  cautious  how  far  you  trust  to  his  advice  or  recommenda- 
tion." 

"  Again  I  ask  why  ?  " 

"  He  is  unlucky  to  his  friends.  He  attaches  himself  much 
to  men  younger  than  himself  ;  and  somehow  or  other  I  have 
observed  that  most  of  them  have  come  to  grief.  Besides,  a 
person  in  whose  sagacity  I  have  great  confidence  warned  me 
against  making  the  Chevalier's  acquaintance,  and  said  to  me, 
in  his  blunt  way,  '  De  Finisterre  came  to  Paris  with  nothing  ; 
he  has  succeeded  to  nothing ;  he  belongs  to  no  ostensible  pro- 
fession by  which  anything  can  be  made.  But  evidently  now 
he  has  picked  up  a  good  deal  ;  and  in  proportion  as  any 
young  associate  of  his  becomes  poorer,  De  Finisterre  seems 
mysteriously  to  become  richer.  Shun  that  sort  of  acquaint- 
ance.' " 

"  Who  is  your  sagacious  adviser  ?  " 

"  Duplessis." 

"Ah,  I  thought  so.  That  bird  of  prey  fancies  every  other 
bird  looking  out  for  pigeons.  I  fancy  that  Duplessis  is  like  all 
those  money-getters,  a  seeker  after  fashion,  and*  De  Finisterre 
has  not  returned  his  bow." 

"  My  dear  Alain,  I  am  to  blame  ;  nothing  is  so  irritating  as 
a  dispute  about  the  worth  of  the  men  we  like.  I  began  it, 
now  let  it  be  dropped  ;  only  make  me  one  promise,  that  if  you 
should  be  in  arrear,  or  if  need  presses,  you  will  come  at  once 
to  me.  It  was  very  well  to  be  absurdly  proud  in  an  attic,  but 
that  pride  will  be  out  of  place  in  your  appa rtcment  au premier.'2 

"  You  are  the  best  fellow  in  the  worki,  Frederic,  and  I  make 


214  THE    PARISIANS. 

you  the  promise  you  ask,"  said  Alain  cheerfully,  but  yet  with 
a  .secret  emotion  of  tenderness  and  gratitude.  "And  now, 
mon  c/ier,  what  day  will  you  dine  with  me  to  meet  Raoul  and 
Enguerrand,  and  some  others  whom  you  would  like  to  know  ?  " 

"  Thanks,  and  hearty  ones,  but  we  move  now  in  different 
spheres,  and  1  shall  not  trespass  on  yours.  Je  suis  trop bourgeois 
to  incur  the  ridicule  of  le  bourgeois  gentilho mine." 

"Frederic,  how  dare  you  speak  thus?  My  dear  fellow,  my 
friends  shall  honor  you  as  I  do." 

"  But  that  will  be  on  your  account,  not  mine.  No  ;  hon- 
estly, that  kind  of  society  neither  tempts  nor  suits  me.  I  am 
a  sort  of  king  in  my  o\vn  walk,  and  I  prefer  my  Bohemian 
royalty  to  vassalage  in  higher  regions.  Say  no  more  of  it.  It 
•  will  flatter  my  vanity  enough  if  you  will  now  and  then  descend 
to  my  coteries,  and  allow  me  to  parade  a  Rochebriant  as  my 
familiar  crony,  slap  him  on  the  shoulder,  and  call  him  Alain." 

"  Fie,  you  who  stopped  me  and  the  English  aristocrat  in  the 
Champs  Elysees,  to  humble  us  with  your  boast  of  having 
fascinated  une  grande  dame — I  think  you  said  a  dttchesse." 

"  Oh,"  said  Lemercier  conceitedly,  and  passing  his  hand 
through  his  scented  locks,  "  women  are  different ;  love  levels 
all  ranks.  I  don't  blame  Ruy  Bias  for  accepting  the  love  of  a 
queen,  but  I  do  blame  him  for  passing  himself  off  as  a  noble — 
a  plagiarism,  by  the  by,  from  an  English  play.  I  do  not  love 
the  English  enough  to  copy  them.  Apropos,  what  has  become 
of  cebeau  Grarm  Yarn?  1  have  not  seen  him  of  late." 

"  Neither  have  I." 

"  Nor  the  belle  Italic  line?  " 

"  Nor  her,"  said  Alain,  slightly  blushing. 

At  this  moment  Enguerrand  lounged  into  the  room.  Alain 
stopped  Lemercier  to  introduce  him  to  his  kinsman.  "  Enguer- 
rand, I  present  to  you  M.  Lemercier,  my  earliest  and  one  of 
my  dearest  friends." 

The  young  noble  held  out  his  hand  with  the  bright  and  joy- 
ous grace  which  accompanied  all  his  movements,  and  expressed 
in  cordial  words  his  delight  to  make  M.  Lemercier's  acquaint- 
ance. Bold  and  assured  as  Frederic  was  in  his  own  circles,  he 
was  more  discomposed  than  set  at  ease  by  the  gracious  accost 
of  a  lion,  whom  he  felt  at  once  to  be  of  a  breed  superior  to  his 
own.  He  muttered  some  confused  phrases,  in  which  ravi  and 
_/£?/// were  alone  audible,  and  evanished. 

..  "  I  know  M.  Lemercier  by  sight  very  well,"  said  Enguerrand, 
seating  himself.  "  One  sees  him  very  often  in  the  Bois  ;  and 
I  have  met  him  in  the  Coulisses  and  the  Bal  Mabille.  I  think, 


THE    PARISIANS.  215 

too,  that  he  plays  at  the  Bourse,  and  is  ///  with  M.  Duplessis, 
who  bids  fair  to  rival  Louvier  one  of  these  days.  Is  Duplessis 
also  one  of  your  dearest  friends  ?  " 

"  No,  indeed.  I  once  met  him,  and  was  not  prepossessed  in 
his  favor." 

"  Nevertheless,  he  is  a  man  much  to  be  admired  and  re- 
spected." 

"Why  so?" 

"Because  he  understands  so  well  the  art  of  making  what  we 
all  covet — money.  I  will  introduce  you  to  him." 

"  I  have  been  already  introduced." 

"  Then  I  will  re-introduce  you.  He  is  much  courted  in  a 
society  which  I  have  recently  been  permitted  by  my  father  to 
frequent — the  society  of  the  Imperial  Court." 

"  You  frequent  that  society,  and  the  Count  permits  it  ?" 

"  Yes  ;  better  the  Imperialists  than  the  Republicans  ;  and 
my  father  begins  to  own  that  truth,  though  lie  is  too  old  or  too 
indolent  to  act  on  it." 

"And  Raoul?" 

"  Oh,  Raoul,  the  melancholy  and  philosophical  Raoul,  has 
no  ambition  of  any  kind,  so  long  as — thanks  somewhat  tome — 
his  purse  is  always  replenished  for  the  wants  of  his  stately  ex- 
istence, among  the  foremost  of  which  wants  are  the  means  to 
supply  the  wants  of  others.  That  is  the  true  reason  why  lie 
consents  to  our  glove-shop.  Raoul  belongs,  with  some  other 
young  men  of  the  faubourg,  to  a  society  enrolled  under  the 
name  of  Saint  Frangois  de  Sales,  for  the  relief  of  the  poor. 
He  visits  their  houses,  and  is  at  home  by  their  sick-beds  as  at 
their  stinted  boards.  Nor  does  he  confine  his  visitations  to 
the  limits  of  our  faubourg  ;  he  extends  his  travels  to  Montmartre 
and  Belleville.  As  to  our  upper  world,  he  does  not  concern 
himself  much  with  its  changes.  He  says  that  '  we  have  de- 
stroyed too  much  ever  to  rebuild  solidly  ;  and  that  whatever 
we  do  build  could  be  upset  any  day  by  a  Paris  mob,  which  he 
declares  to  be  the  only  institution  we  have  left.'  A  wonderful 
fellow  is  Raoul ;  full  of  mind,  though  he  does  little  with  it  ; 
full  of  heart,  which  he  devotes  to  suffering  humanity,  and  to  a 
poetic,  knightly  reverence  (not  to  be  confounded  with  earthly 
love,  and  not  to  be  degraded  into  that  sickly  sentiment  called 
Platonic  affection)  for  the  Comtesse  di  Rimini,  who  is  six  years 
older  than  himself,  and  who  is  very  faithfully  attached  to  her 
husband,  Raoul's  intimate  friend,  whose  honor  he  would  guard 
as  his  own.  It  is  an  episode  in  the  drama  of  Parisian  life,  and 
one  not  so  uncommon  as  the  malignant  may  suppose.  Pi 


2l6  THE    PARISIANS. 

Rimini  knows  and  approves  of  his  veneration  ;  my  mother,  the 
best  of  women,  sanctions  it,  and  deems  truly  that  it  preserves 
Raoul  safe  from  all  the  temptations  to  which  ignobler  youth  is 
exposed.  I  mention  this  lest  you  should  imagine  there  was 
anything  in  Raoul's  worship  of  his  star  less  pure  than  it  is. 
For  the  rest,  Raoul,  to  the  grief  and  amazement  of  that  disci- 
ple ojf  Voltaire,  my  respected  father,  is  one  of  the  very  few  men 
I  know  in  our  circles  who  is  sincerely  religious — an  orthodox 
Catholic — and  the  only  man  I  know  who  practises  the  religion 
he  professes  ;  charitable,  chaste,  benevolent ;  and  no  bigot,  no 
intolerant  ascetic.  His  only  weakness  is  his  entire  submission 
to  the  worldly  common-sense  of  his  good-for-nothing,  covet- 
ous, ambitious  brother  Enguerrand.  I  cannot  say  how  I  love 
him  for  that.  If  he  had  not  such  a  weakness,  his  excellence 
would  gall  me,  and  I  believe  I  should  hate  him." 

Alain  bowed  his  head  at  this  eulogium.  Such  had  been  the 
character  that,  a  few  months  ago,  he  would  have  sought  as  ex- 
ample and  model.  He  seemed  to  gaze  upon  a  flattered  portrait 
of  himself  as  he  had  been. 

"  But,"  said  Enguerrand,  "  I  have  not  come  here  to  indulge 
in  the  overflow  of  brotherly  affection.  I  come  to  take  you  to 
your  relation,  the  Duchesse  of  Tarascon.  I  have  pledged  my- 
self to  her  to  bring  you,  and  she  is  at  home  on  purpose  to  re- 
ceive you." 

"  In  that  case  I  cannot  be  such  a  churl  as  to  refuse.  And, 
indeed,  I  no  longer  feel  quite  the  same  prejudices  against  her 
and  the  Imperialists  as  I  brought  from  Bretagne.  Shall  I 
order  my  carriage  ?  " 

"  No  ;  mine  is  at  the  door.  Yours  can  meet  you  where  you 
will,  later.  Allans." 

CHAPTER  III. 

THE  Duchesse  de  Tarascon  occupied  a  vast  apartment  in  the 
Rue  Royale,  close  to  the  Tuileries.  She  held  a  high  post 
among  the  ladies  who  graced  the  brilliant  Court  of  the  Em- 
press. She  had  survived  her  second  husband  the  Due,  who  left 
no  issue,  and  the  title  died  with  him.  Alain  and  Enguerrand 
were  ushered  up  the  grand  staircase,  lined  with  tiers  of  costly 
exotics  as  if  for  a  f$te  ;  but  in  that  and  in  all  kinds  of  female 
luxury,  the  Duchesse  lived  in  a  state  of  fete  perpttudle.  The 
doors  on  the  landing-place  were  screened  by  heavy  portieres  of 
Genoa  velvet,  richly  embroidered  in  gold  with  the  ducal  crown 
and  cipher.  The  two  salons  through  which  the  visitors  passed 


THE    PARISIANS.  217 

to  the  private  cabinet  or  boudoir  were  decorated  with  Gobelin 
tapestries,  fresh,  with  a  mixture  of  roseate  hues,  and  depicting 
incidents  in  the  career  of  the  first  Emperor  ;  while  the  effigie-- 
of  the  late  Due's  father — the  gallant  founder  of  a  short-lived 
race — figured  modestly  in  the  background.  On  a  table  of 
Russian  malachite  within  the  recess  of  the  central  window  lay, 
preserved  in  glass  cases,  the  baton  and  the  sword,  the  epau- 
lettes and  the  decorations  of  the  brave  Marshal.  On  the  con- 
soles and  the  mantelpieces  stood  clocks  and  vases  of  Sevres 
that  could  scarcely  be  eclipsed  by  those  in  the  Imperial  palaces. 
Entering  the  cabinet,  they  found  the  Duehesse  seated  at  her 
writing-table,  with  a  small  Skye  terrier,  hideous  in  the  beauty 
of  the  purest  breed,  nestled  at  her  feet.  This  room  was  an 
exquisite  combination  of  costliness  and  comfort — luxury  at 
•home.  The  hangings  were  of  geranium-colored  silk,  with 
double  curtains  of  white  satin  ;  near  to  the  writing-table  a  con- 
servatory, with  a  white  marble  fountain  at  play  in  the  centre, 
and  a  trellised  aviary  at  the  back.  The  walls  were  covered 
with  small  pictures,  chiefly  portraits  and  miniatures  of  the 
members  of  the  Imperial  family,  of  the  late  Due,  of  his  father 
the  Marshal  and  Madame  la  Marechale,  of  the  present  Du- 
ehesse herself,  and  of  some  of  the  principal  ladies  of  the  Court. 

The  Duehesse  was  still  in  the  prime  of  life.  She  had  passed 
her  fortieth  year,  but  was  so  well  "conserved  "  that  you  might 
have  guessed  her  to  be  ten  years  younger.  She  was  tall  ;  not 
large,  but  with  rounded  figure  inclined  to  embonpoint ;  with 
dark  hair  and  eyes,  but  fair  complexion,  injured  in  effect 
rather  than  improved  by  pearl  powder,  and  that  atrocious  bar- 
barism of  a  dank  stain  on  the  eyelids  which  has  of  late  years 
been  a  baneful  fashion;  dressed — I  am  a  man  and  cannot 
describe  her  dress — all  I  know  is,  that  she  had  the  acknowl- 
edged fame  of  the  best-dressed  subject  of  France.  As  she  rose 
from  her  seat  there  was  in  her  look  and  air  the  unmistakable 
evidence  of  grande  dame  ;  a  family  likeness  in  feature  to  Alain 
himself,  a  stronger  likeness  to  the  picture  of  her  first  cousin, 
his  mother,  which  was  preserved  at  Rochebriant.  Her  descent 
was  indeed  from  ancient  and  noble  houses.  But  to  the  dis- 
tinction of  race  she  added  that  of  fashion  ;  crowning  both 
with  a  tranquil  consciousness  of  lofty  position  and  unblemished 
reputation. 

"Unnatural  cousin,"  she  said  to  Alain,  offering  her  hand  to 
him  with  a  gracious  smile  ;  "  all  this  age  in  Paris,  and  I  see 
you  for  the  first  time.  But  there  is  joy  on  earth  as  in  heaven 
over  sinners  who  truly  repent.  You  repent  truly — nest-ce pas  ?  " 


2l8  THE    PARISIANS. 

It  is  impossible  to  describe  the  caressing  charm  which  the 
Duchesse  threw  into  her  words,  voice,  and  look.  Alain  was 
fascinated  and  subdued. 

"Ah,  Madame  la  Duchesse,"  said  he,  bowing  over  the  fair 
hand  he  lightly  held,  "  it  was  not  sin,  unless  modesty  be  a  sin, 
which  made  a  rustic  hesitate  long  before  he  dared  to  offer  his 
homage  to  the  queen  of  the  graces." 

"  Not  badly  said  for  a  rustic,"  cried  Enguerrand  ;  "  eh, 
Madame  ?  " 

"  My  cousin,  you  are  pardoned,"  said  the  Duchesse.  ''Com- 
pliment is  the  perfume  of  gentilhommerie  ;  and  if  you  brought 
enough  of  that  perfume  from  the  flowers  of  Rochebriant  to 
distribute  among  the  ladies  at  Court,  you  will  be  terribly  the 
mode  there.  Seducer  !  " — here  she  gave  the  Marquis  a  playful 
tap  on  the  cheek,  not  in  a  coquettish  but  in  a  mother-like  . 
familiarity,  and  looking  at  him  attentively,  said  :  "  Why,  you 
are  even  handsomer  than  your  father.  I  shall  be  proud  to 
present  to  their  Imperial  Majesties  so  becoming  a  cousin.  But 
seat  yourselves  here,  Messieurs,  close  to  my  arm-chair,  causoas." 

The  Duchesse  then  took  up  the  ball  of  the  conversation. 
She  talked  without  any  apparent  artifice,  but  with  admirable 
tact  ;  put  just  the  questions  about  Rochebriant  most  calculated 
to  please  Alain,  shunning  all  that  might  have  pained  him  ; 
asking  him  for  descriptions  of  the  surrounding  scenery,  the 
Breton  legends  ;  hoping  that  the  old  castle  would  never  be 
spoiled  by  modernizing  restorations  ;  inquiring  tenderly  after 
his  aunt,  whom  she  had  in  her  childhood  once  seen,  and  still 
remembered  with  her  sweet,  grave  face  ;  paused  little  for  re- 
plies ;  then  turned -to  Enguerrand  with  sprightly  small-talk  on 
the  topics  of  the  day,  and  every  now  and  then  bringing  Alain 
into  the  pale  of  the  talk,  leading  on  insensibly  until  she  got 
Enguerrand  himself  to  introduce  the  subject  of  the  Emperor 
and  the  political  troubles  which  were  darkening  a  reign  here- 
tofore so  prosperous  and  splendid. 

Her  countenance  then  changed  ;  it  became  serious,  and  even 
grave  in  its  expression. 

"It  is  true,"  she  said,  "that  the  times  grow  menacing — 
menacing  not  only  to  the  throne,  but  to  order  and  property  and 
France.  One  by  one  they  are  removing  all  the  breakwaters 
which  the  Empire  had  constructed  between  the  executive  and 
the  most  fickle  and  impulsive  population  that  ever  shouted 
'  long  live  '  one  day  to  the  man  whom  they  would  send  to  the 
guillotine  the  next.  They  are  denouncing  what  they  call  per- 
sonal government ;  grant  that  it  has  its  evils  ;  but  what  would 


THE   PARISIANS.  210 

they  substitute  ?  A  constitutional  monarchy  like  the  English  ? 
That  is  impossible  with  universal  suffrage  and  without  an 
hereditary  chamber.  The  nearest  approach  to  it  was  the 
monarchy  of  Louis  Philippe — we  know  how  sick  they  became 
of  that.  A  republic?  Mon  Dicu !  composed  of  republicans 
terrified  out  of  their  wits  at  each  other.  The  moderate  men, 
mimics  of  the  Girondins,  with  the  Reds,  and  the  Socialists,  and 
the  Communists,  ready  to  tear  them  to  pieces.  And  then — 
what  then  ?  The  commercialists,  the  agriculturists,  the  middle 
class  combining  to  elect  some  dictator  who  will  cannonade  the 
mob,  and  become  a  mimic  Napoleon,  grafted  on  a  mimic 
Necker  or  a  mimic  Danton.  Oh,  Messieurs,  I  am  French  to 
the  core  !  You  inheritors  of  such  names  must  be  as  French  as 
I  am  ;  and  yet  you  rn,en  insist  on  remaining  more  useless  to 
France  in  the  midst  of  her  need  than  I  am — I,  a  woman  who 
can  but  talk  and  weep/' 

The  Duchess  spoke  with  a  warmth  of  emotion  which  startled 
and  profoundly  affected  Alain.  He  remained  silent,  leaving  it 
to  Enguerrand  to  answer. 

"  Dear  Madame,"  said  the  latter,  "  I  do  not  see  how  either 
myself  or  our  kinsman  can  merit  your  reproach.  We  are  not 
legislators.  I  doubt  if  there  is  a  single  department  in  France 
that  would  elect  us,  if  we  offered  ourselves.  It  is-not  our  fault 
if  the  various  floods  of  revolution  leave  men  of  our  birth  and 
opinions  stranded  wrecks  of  a  perished  world.  The  Emperor 
chooses  his  own  advisers,  and  if  they  are  bad  ones,  his  Majesty 
certainly  will  not  ask  Alain  and  me  to  replace  them." 

"  You  do  not  answer,  you  evade  me,"  said  the  Duchesse, 
with  a  mournful  smile.  "  You  are  too  skilled  a  man  of  the 
world,  M.  Enguerrand,  not  to  know  that  it  is  not  only  legisla- 
tors and  ministers  that  are  necessary  to  the  support  of  a  throne, 
and  the  safeguard  of  a  nation.  Do  you  not  see  how  great  a 
help  it  is  to  both  throne  and  nation,  when  that  section  of  public 
opinion  which  is  represented  by  names  illustrious  in  history, 
identified  with  records  of  chivalrous  deeds  and  loyal  devotion, 
rallies  round  the  order  established  ?  Let  that  section  of  public 
opinion  stand  aloof,  soured  and  discontented,  excluded  from 
active  life,  lending  no  counterbalance  to  the  perilous  oscilla- 
tions of  democratic  passion,  and  tell  me  if  it  is  not  an  enemy 
to  itself  as  well  as  a  traitor  to  the  principles  it  embodies  ?" 

"The  principles  it  embodies,  Madame,"  said  Alain,  "  are 
those  of  fidelity  to  a  race  of  kings  unjustly  set  aside,  less  for 
the  vices  than  the  virtues  of  ancestors.  Louis  XV.  was  the 
worst  of  the  Bourbons  ;  he  was  the  Men  aimJ — he  escapes  ; 


220  THE  PARISIANS. 

Louis  XVI.  was  in  moral  attributes  the  best  of  the  Bourbons — 
he  dies  the  death  of  a  felon  ;  Louis  XVIII.,  against  whom  much 
may  be  said,  restored  to  the  throne  by  foreign  bayonets,  reign- 
ing as  a  disciple  of  Voltaire  might  reign,  secretly  scoffing  alike 
at  the  royalty  and  the  religion  which  were  crowned  in  his  per- 
son, dies  peacefully  in  his  bed  ;  Charles  X.,  redeeming  the 
errors  of  his  youth  by  a  reign  untarnished  by  a  vice,  by  a  relig- 
ion earnest  and  sincere,  is  sent  into  exile  for  defending  estab- 
lished order  from  the  very  inroads  which  you  lament.  He 
leaves  an  heir  against  whom  calumny  cannot  invent  a  tale,  and 
that  heir  remains  an  outlaw  simply  because  he  descends  from 
Henry  IV.,  and  has  a  right  to  reign.  Madame,  you  appeal  to 
us  as  among  the  representatives  of  the  chivalrous  deeds  and 
loyal  devotion  which  characterized  the  old  nobility  of  France. 
Should  we  deserve  that  charactei  if  we  forsook  the  unfortunate, 
and  gained  wealth  and  honor  in  forsaking  ?" 

"Your  words  endear  you  tome.  lam  proud  to  call  you 
cousin,"  said  the  Duchesse.  "But  do  you,  or  does  any  man 
in  his  senses,  believe  that  if  you  upset  the  Empire  you  could 
get  back  the  Bourbons  ?  That  you  would  not  be  in  imminent 
danger  of  a  Government  infinitely  more  opposed  to  the  theories 
on  which  rests  the  creed  of  Legitimists  than  that  of  Louis  Na- 
poleon ?  After  all,  what  is  there  in  the  loyalty  of  you  Bour- 
bonites  that  has  in  it  the  solid  worth  of  an  argument  which  can 
appeal  to  the  comprehension  of  mankind,  except  it  be  the 
principle  of-  an  hereditary  monarchy  ?  Nobody  nowadays  can 
maintain  the  right  divine  of  a  single  regal  family  to  impose  it- 
self upon  a  nation.  That  dogma  has  ceased  to  be  a  living 
principle  ;  it  is  only  a  dead  reminiscence.  But  the  institution 
of  monarchy  is  a  principle  strong  and  vital,  and  appealing  to 
the  practical  interests  of  vast  sections  of  society.  Would  you 
sacrifice  the  principle  which  concerns  the  welfare  of  millions, 
because  you  cannot  embody  it  in  the  person  of  an  individual 
utterly  insignificant  in  himself?  In  a  word,  if  you  prefer  mon- 
archy to  the .  hazard  of  republicanism  for  such  a  country  as 
France,  accept  the  monarchy  you  find,  since  it  is  quite  clear 
you  cannot  rebuild  the  monarchy  you  would  prefer.  Does  it 
not  embrace  all  the  great  objects  for  which  you  call  yourself 
Legitimist?  Under  it  religion  is  honored,  a  national  church 
secured,  in  reality  if  not  in  name;  under  it  you  have  united 
the  votes  of  millions  to  the  establishment  of  the  throne  ;  under 
it  all  the  material  interests  of  the  country,  commercial,  agricul- 
tural, have  advanced  with  an  unequalled  rapidity  of  progress  ; 
under  it  Paris  has  become  the  wonder  of  the  world  for  riches, 


THE    PARISIANS.  221 

for  splendor,  for  grace  and  beauty  ;  under  it  the  old  traditional 
enemies  of  France  have  been  humbled  and  rendered  impotent. 
The  policy  of  Richelieu  has  been  achieved  in  the  abasement 
of  Austria  ;  the  policy  of  Napoleon  I.  has  been  consummated 
in  the  salvation  of  Europe  from  the  semi-barbarous  ambition 
of  Russia.  England  no  longer  casts  her  trident  in  the  opposite 
scale  of  the  balance  of  European  power.  Satisfied  with  the 
honor  of  our  alliance,  she  has  lost  every  other  ally  ;  and  her 
forces  neglected,  her  spirit  enervated,  her  statesmen  dreaming 
believers  in  the  safety  of  their  island,  provided  they  withdraw 
from  the  affairs  of  Europe,  may  sometimes  scold  us,  but  will 
certainly  not  dare  to  fight.  With  France  she  is  but  an  inferior 
satellite  ;  without  France  she  is — nothing.  Add  to  all  this  a 
Court  more  brilliant  than  that  of  Louis  XIV.,  a  sovereign  not 
indeed  without  faults  and  errors,  but  singularly  mild  in  his  na- 
ture, warm-hearted  to  friends,  forgiving  to  foes,  whom  person- 
ally no  one  could  familiarly  know  and  not  be  charmed  with  a 
bonte  of  character,  lovable  as  that  of  Henri  IV. — and  tell  me 
what  more  than  all  this  could  you  expect  from  the  reign  of  a 
Bourbon  ? " 

"  With  such  results,"  said  Alain,  "  from  the  monarchy  you  so 
eloquently  praise,  I  fail  to  discover  what  the  Emperor's  throne 
could  possibly  gain  by  a  few  powerless  converts  from  an  un- 
popular, and  you  say,  no  doubt  truly,  from  a  hopeless  cause." 

"  I  say  monarchy  gains  much  by  the  loyal  adhesion  of  any 
man  of  courage,  ability,  and  honor.  Every  new  monarchy  gains 
much  by  conversions  from  the  ranks  by  which  the  older  mon- 
archies were  strengthened  and  adorned.  But  I  do  not  here 
invoke  your  aid  merely  to  this  monarchy,  my  cousin  ;  I  de- 
mand your  devotion  to  the  interests  of  France  ;  I  demand  that 
you  should  not  rest  an  outlaw  from  her  service.  Ah,  you  think 
that  France  is  in  no  danger,  that  you  may  desert  or  oppose  the 
Empire  as  you  list,  and  that  society  will  remain  safe !  You 
are  mistaken.  Ask  Enguerrand." 

"Madame,"  said  Enguerrand,  "  you  overrate  my  political 
knowledge  in  that  appeal ;  but  honestly  speaking,  I  subscribe  to 
your  reasonings.  I  agree  with  you  that  the  Empire  sorely 
needs  the  support  of  men  of  honor  ;  it  has  one  cause  of  rot 
which  now  undermines  it — dishonest  jobbery  in  its  adminis- 
trative departments  ;  even  in  that  of  the  army,  which  appar- 
ently is  so  heeded  and  cared  for.  I  agree  with  you  that  France 
is  in  danger,  and  may  need  the  swords  of  all  her  better  sons, 
whether  against  the  foreigner  or  against  her  worst  enemies — 
the  mobs  of  her  great  towns.  I  myself  received  a  military 


222  THE    PARISIANS.. 

education,  and  but  for  my  reluctance  to  separate  myself  from 
my  father  and  Raoul,  I  should  be  a  candidate  for  employments 
more  congenial  to  me  than  those  of  the  Bourse  and  my  trade 
in  the  glove-shop.  But  Alain  is  happily  free  from  all  family 
ties,  and  Alain  knows  that  my  advice  to  him  is  not  hostile  to 
your  exhortations." 

"I  am  glad  to  think  he  is  under  so  salutary  an  influence," 
said  the  Duchesse  ;  and  seeing  that  Alain  remained  silent  and 
thoughtful,  she  wisely  changed  the  subject,  and  shortly  after- 
wards the  two  friends  took  leave. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

THREE  days  elapsed  before  Graham  again  saw  M.  Lebeau. 
The  letter-writer  did  not  show  himself  at  the  cafe,  and  was 
not  to  be  found  at  his  office,  the  ordinary  business  of  which 
was  transacted  by  his  clerk,  saying  that  his  master  was  much 
engaged  on  important  matters  that  took  him  from  home. 

Graham  naturally  thought  that  these  matters  concerned  the 
discovery  of  Louise  Duval,  and  was  reconciled  to  suspense. 
At  the  cafe,  awaiting  Lebeau,  he  had  slid  into  some  acquaint- 
ance with,  the  oiivricr  Armand  Monnier,  whose  face  and  talk 
had  before  excited  his  interest.  Indeed,  the  acquaintance 
had  been  commenced  by  the  ouvrier,  who  seated  himself  at  a 
table  near  Graham's,  and,  after  looking  at  him  earnestly  for 
some  minutes,  said,  "You  are  waiting  for  your  antagonist  at 
dominoes,  M.  Lebeau — a  very  remarkable  man." 

"So  he  seems.  I  know,  however,  but  little  of  him.  You, 
perhaps,  have  known  him  longer?" 

"Several  months.  Many  of  your  countrymen  frequent  this 
cafe,  but  you  do  not  seem  to  care  to  associate  with  the  blouses." 

"It  is  not  that ;  but  we  islanders  are  shy,  and  don't  make 
acquaintance  with  each  other  readily.  By.the  way,  since  you 
so  courteously  accost  me,  I  may  take  the  liberty  of  saying  that 
I  overheard  you  defend  the  other  night,  against  one  of  my 
countryfhen,  who  seemed  to  me  to  talk  great  nonsense,  the  ex- 
istence of  le  bon  Dieu.  You  had  much  the  best  of  it.  I  rather 
gathered  from  your  argument  that  you  went  somewhat  farther, 
and  were  not  too  enlightened  to  admit  of  Christianity." 

Armand  Monnier  looked  pleased  ;  he  liked  praise,  and  he 
liked  to  hear  himself  talk,  and  he  plunged  at  once  into  a  very 
complicated  sort  of  Christianity — partly  Arian,  partly  St. 
Simonian,  with  a  little  of  Rousseau  and  a  great  deal  of  Armand 


THE    PARISIANS.  223 

Monnier.  Into  this  we  need  not  follow  him  ;  but  in  sum,  it 
was  a  sort  of  Christianity,  the  main  heads  of  which  consisted 
in  the  removal  of  your  neighbor's  landmarks  ;  in  the  right  of 
the  poor  to  appropriate  the  property  of  the  rich ;  in  the 
right  of  love  to  dispense  with  marriage,  and  the  duty  of  the 
State  to  provide  for  any  children  that  might  result  from  such 
union,  the  parents  being  incapacitated  to  do  so,  as  whatever 
they  might  leave  was  due  to  the  treasury  in  common.  Graham 
listened  to  these  doctrines  with  melancholy  not  unmixed  with 
contempt.  "  Are  these  opinions  of  yours,"  he  asked,  "  derived 
from  reading  or  your  own  reflection  ?  " 

"Well,  from  both,  but  from  circumstances  in  life  that  in- 
duced me  to  read  and  reflect.  I  am  one  of  the  many  victims 
of  the  tyrannical  law  of  marriage.  When  very  young  I  mar- 
ried a  woman  who  made  me  miserable,  and  then  forsook  me. 
Morally  she  has  ceased  to  be  my  wife  ;  legaUy,  she  is.  I  then 
met  with  another  woman  who  suits  me,  who  loves  me.  She 
lives  with  me  ;  I  cannot  marry  her  ;  she  has  to  submit  to  hu- 
miliations, to  be  called  contemptuously  an  vuviter's  mistress. 
Then,  though  before  I  was  only  a  Republican,  I  felt  there  was 
something  wrong  in  society  which  needed  a  greater  change 
than  that  of  a  merely  political  government ;  and  then,  too,  when 
I  was  all  troubled  and  sore,  I  chanced  to  read  one  of  Madame 
de  Grantmesnil's  books.  A  glorious  genius  that  womari"s  !  " 

"She  has  genius,  certainly,"  said  Graham,  with  a  keen  pang 
at  his  heart  ;  Madame  de  Grantmesnil,  the  dearest  friend  of 
Isaura  !  u  But,"  he  added,  "  though  I  believe  that  eloquent 
author  has  indirectly  assailed  certain  social  institutions,  in- 
cluding that  of  marriage,  I  am  perfectly  persuaded  that  she 
never  designed  to  effect  such  complete  overthrow  of  the  sys- 
tem which  all  civilized  communities, have  hitherto  held  in 
reverence,  as  your  doctrines  would  attempt ;  and  after  all,  she 
but  expresses  her  ideas  through  the  medium  of  fabulous  inci- 
dents and  characters.  And  men  of  your  sense  should  not  look 
for  a  creed  in  the  fictions  of  poets  and  romance  writers." 

"  Ah,"  said  Monnier,  "I  dare  say  neither  Madame  de  Grant- 
mesnil nor  even  Rousseau  ever  even  guessed  the  ideas  they 
awoke  in  their  readers  ;  but  one  idea  leads  on  to  another.  And 
genuine  poetry  and  romance  touch  the  heart  so  much  more 
than  dry  treatises.  In  a  word,  Madame  de  Grantmesnil's  book 
set  me  thinking,  and  then  I  read  other  books,  and  talked  with 
clever  men,  and  educated  myself.  And  so  I  became  the  man 
I  am."  Here,  with  a  self-satisfied  air,  Monnier  bowed  to  the 
Englishman  and  joined  a  group  at  the  other  end  of  the  room. 


224  THE    PARISIANS. 

The  next  evening,  just  before  dusk,  Graham  Vane  was 
seated  musingly  in  his  own  apartment  in  the  Faubourg  Mont- 
martre,  when  there  came  a  slight  knock  at  his  door.  He  was  so 
rapt  in  thought  that  he  did  not  hear  the  sound,  though  twice 
repeated.  The  door  opened  gently,  and  M.  Lebeau  appeared 
on  the  threshold.  The  room  was  lighted  only  by  the  gas-lamp 
from  the  street  without. 

Lebeau  advanced  through  the  gloom,  and  quietly  seated 
himself  in  the  corner  of  the  fireplace  opposite  to  Graham  be- 
fore he  spoke.  "  A  thousand  pardons  for  disturbing  your 
slumbers,  M.  Lamb." 

Startled  then  by  the  voice  so  near  him,  Graham  raised  his 
head,  looked  round,  and  beheld  very  indistinctly  the  person 
seated  so  near  him. 

"  M.  Lebeau  ? " 

"  At  your  service.  I  promised  to  give  an  answer  to  your 
question  :  accept  my  apologies  that  it  has  been  deferred  so 
long.  I  shall  not  this  evening  go  to  our  cafe  ;  I  took  the 
liberty  of  calling — " 

"  M.  Lebeau,  you  are  a  brick." 

"  A  what,  Monsieur  ! — a  brique?" 

"  I  forgot — you  are  not  up  to  our  fashionable  London 
idioms.  A  brick  means  a  jolly  fellow,  and  it  is  very  kind  in 
you  to  call.  What  is  your  decision  ?  " 

"  Monsieur,  I  can  give  you  some  information,  but  it  is  so 
slight  that  I  offer  it  gratis,  and  forego  all  thought  of  undertak- 
ing farther  inquiries.  They  could  only  be  prosecuted  in  an- 
other country,  and  it  would  not  be  worth  my  while  to  leave 
Paris  on  the  chance  of  gaining  so  trifling  a  reward  as  you  pro- 
pose. Judge  for  yourself.  In  the  year  1849,  and  in  the  month 
of  July,  Louise  Duval  left  Paris  for  Aix-la-Chapelle.  There 
she  remained  some  weeks,  and  then  left  it.  I  can  learn  no 
farther  traces  of  her  movements." 

"  Aix-la-Chapelle  !     What  could  she  do  there  ? " 
. "  It  is  a  Spa  in  great  request ;  crowded  during  the  summer 
season  with  visitors  from  all  countries.     She  might  have  gone 
there  for  health  or  for  pleasure." 

"  Do  you  think  that  one  could  learn  more  at  the  Spa  itself  if 
one  went  there  ? " 

'  Possibly.     But  it  is  so  long — twenty  years  ago." 

'  She  might  have  revisited  the  place." 

'  Certainly  ;  but  I  know  no  more." 

'  Was  she  there  under  the  same  name — Duval  ?" 

'  I  am  sure  of  that," 


THE    PARISIANS.  225 

"  Do  you  think  she  left  it  alone  or  with  others  ?  You  tell 
me  she  was  awfully  belle — she  might  have  attracted  admirers." 

"  If,"  answered  Lebeau  reluctantly,  "  I  could  believe  the  re- 
port of  my  informant,  Louise  Duval  left  Aix  not  alone,  but 
with  some  gallant — not  an  Englishman.  They  are  said  to 
have  parted  soon,  and  the  man  is  now  dead.  But,  speak- 
ing frankly,  I  do  not  think  Mademoiselle  Duval  would  have 
thus  compromised  her  honor  and  sacrificed  her  future.  I 
believe  she  would  have  scorned  all  proposals  that  were  not 
those  of  marriage.  But,  all  I  can  say  for  certainty  is,  that 
nothing  is  known  to  me  of  her  fate  since  she  quitted  Aix-la- 
Chapelle." 

"  In  1849 — she  had  then  a  child  living  ?  " 

"  A  child  ?  I  never  heard  that  she  had  any  child  ;  and  I 
do  not  believe  she  could  have  had  any  child  in  1849." 

Graham  mused.  Somewhat  less  than  five  years  after  1849 
Louise  Duval  had  been  seen  at  Aix-la-Chapelle.  Possibly  she 
found  some  attraction  at  that  place,  and  might  yet  be  discovered 
there.  "  Monsieur  Lebeau,"  said  Graham,  "  you  know  this 
lady  by  sight  ;  you  would  recognize  her  in  spite  of  the  lapse  of 
years.  Will  you  go  to  Aix  and  find  out  there  what  you  can  ? 
Of  course  expenses  will  be  paid,  and  the  reward  will  be  given 
if  you  succeed." 

"  I  cannot  oblige  you.  My  interest  in  this  poor  lady  is  not 
very  strong,  though  I  should  be  willing  to  serve  her,  and  glad 
to  know  that  she  were  alive.  I  have  now  business  on  hand 
which  interests  me  much  more,  and  which  will  take  me  from 
Paris,  but  not  in  the  direction  of  Aix." 

"  If  I  wrote  to  my  employer,  and  got  him  to  raise  the  reward 
to  some  higher  amount,  that  might  make  it  worth  your  while?" 

"  I  should  still  answer  that  my  affairs  will  not  permit  such  a 
journey.  But  if  there  be  any  chance  of  tracing  Louise  Duval 
at  Aix — and  there  maybe — you  would  succeed  quite  as  well  as 
I  should.  You  must  judge  for  yourself  if  it  be  worth  your 
trouble  to  attempt  such  a  task  ;  and  if  you  do  attempt  it,  and 
do  succeed,  pray  let  me  know.  A  line  to  my  office  will  reach 
me  for  some  little  time,  even  if  I  am  absent  from  Paris.  Adieu, 
M.  Lamb." 

Here  M.  Lebeau  rose  and  departed. 

Graham  relapsed  into  thought  ;  but  a  train  of  thought  much 
more  active,  much  more  concentred  than  before.  "  No," — 
thus  ran  his  meditations  ;  "  No,  it  would  not  be  safe  to  employ 
that  man  further.  The  reasons  that  forbid  me  to  offer  any 
very  high  reward  for  the  discovery  of  this  woman  operate  still 


226  THE    PARISIANS. 

more  strongly  against  tendering  to  her  own  relation  a  sum  that 
might  indeed  secure  his  aid,  but  would  unquestionably  arouse 
his  suspicions,  and  perhaps  drag  into  light  all  that  must  be 
concealed.  Oh,  this  cruel  mission  !  I  am,  indeed,  an  impostor 
to  myself  till  it  be  fulfilled.  I  will  go  to  Aix,  and  take  Renard 
with  me.  I  am  impatient  till  I  set  out,  but  I  cannot  quit  Paris 
without  once  more  seeing  Isaura.  She  consents  to  relinquish 
the  stage  ;  surely  I  could  wean  her  too  from  intimate  friend- 
ship with  a  woman  whose  genius  has  so  fatal  an  effect  upon  en- 
thusiastic minds.  And  then — and  then  ?" 

He  fell  into  a  delightful  revery  ;  and  contemplating  Isaura 
as  his  future  wife,  he  surrounded  her  sweet  image  with  all 
those  attributes  of  dignity  and  respect  with  which  an  English- 
man is  accustomed  to. invest  the  destined  bearer  of  his  name, 
the  gentle  sovereign  of  his  household,  the  sacred  mother  of  his 
children.  In  this  picture  the  more  brilliant  qualities  of  Isaura 
found,  perhaps,  but  faint  presentation.  Her  glow  of  sentiment, 
her  play  of  fancy,  her  artistic  yearnings  for  truths  remote,  for 
the  invisible  fairyland  of  beautiful  romance,  receded  into  the 
background  of  the  picture.  It  was  all  these,  no  doubt,  that 
had  so  strengthened  and  enriched  the  love  at  first  sight,  which 
had  shaken  the  equilibrium  of  his  positive  existence  ;  and  yet 
he  now  viewed  all  these  as  subordinate  to  the  one  image  of  mild, 
decorous  matronage  into  which  wedlock  was  to  transform  the 
child  of  genius,  longing  for  angel  wings  and  unlimited  space. 


CHAPTER  V. 

ON  quitting  the  sorry  apartment  of  the  false  M.  Lamb,  Le- 
beau  walked  on  with  slow  steps. and  bended  head,  like  a  man 
absorbed  in  thought.  He  threaded  a  labyrinth  of  obscure 
streets,  no  longer  in  the  Faubourg  Montmartre,  and  dived  at 
last  into  one  of  the  few  courts  which  preserve  the  cachet  of  the 
moycn  age  untouched  by  the  ruthless  spirit  of  improvement 
which,  during  the  Second  Empire,  has  so  altered  the  face  of 
Paris.  At  the  bottom  of  the  court  stood  a  large  house,  much 
dilapidated,  but  bearing  the  trace  of  former  grandeur  in  pilas- 
ters and  fretwork  in  the  style  of  the  Renaissance,  and  a  de- 
faced coat-of-arms,  surmounted  with  a  ducal  coronet,  over  the 
doorway.  The  house  had  the  aspect  of  desertion  ;  many  of 
the  windows  were  broken  ;  others  were  jealously  closed  with 
mouldering  shutters.  The  door  stood  ajar  ;  Lebeau  pushed  it 
open,  and  the  action  set  in  movement  a  bell  within  a  porter's 


THE    PARISIANS.  227 

lodge.  The  house,  then,  was  not  uninhabited  ;  it  retained  the 
dignity  of  a  coticierge.  A  man  with  a  large  grizzled  beard  cut 
square,  and  holding  a  journal  in  his  hand,  emerged  from  the 
lodge,  and  moved  his  cap  with  a  certain  bluff  and  surly  rever- 
ence on  recognizing  Lebeau. 

"  What,  so  early,  citizen  ?  " 

"  Is  it  too  early  ?  "  said  Lebeau,  glancing  at  his  watch.  "So 
it  is  ;  I  was  not  aware  of  the  time.  But  I  am  tired  with  wait- 
ing ;  let  me  into  the  salon.  I  will  wait  for  the  rest ;  I  shall  not 
be  sorry  for  a  little  repose." 

"  J3on"  said  the  porter  sententiously  ;  "while  man  reposes 
men  advance." 

"  A  profound  truth,  citizen  Le  Roux  ;  though,  if  they  ad- 
vance on  a.  reposing  foe,  they  have  blundering  leaders  unless 
they  march  through  unguarded  bypaths  and  with  noiseless 
tread." 

Following  the  porter  up  a  dingy  broad  staircase,  Lebeau  was 
admitted  in  a  large  room,  void  of  all  other  furniture  than  a 
table,  two  benches  at  its  sides,  and  a  fauteuil  at  its  head.  On 
the  mantelpiece  there  was  a  huge  clock,  and  some  iron  sconces 
were  fixed  on  the  panelled  walls. 

Lebeau  flung  himself,  with  a  wearied  air,  into  the  fauteuil. 
The  porter  looked  at  him  with  a  kindly  expression.  He  had  a 
liking  to  Lebeau,  whom  he  had  served  in  his  proper  profession 
of  messenger  or  commissionaiKe  before  being  placed  by  that 
courteous  employer  in  the  easy  post  he  now  held.  Lebeau,  in- 
deed, had  the  art,  when  he  pleased,  of  charming  inferiors  ;  his 
knowledge  of  mankind  allowed  him  to  distinguish  peculiarities 
in  each  individual,  and  flatter  the  amour  propre  by  deference  to 
such  eccentricities.  Marc  le  Roux,  the  roughest  of  "  red  caps," 
had  a  wife  of  whom  he  was  very  proud.  He  would  have  called 
the  Empress  Citoyenne  Eugenie,  but  he  always  spoke  of  his  wife 
as  Madame.  Lebeau  won  his  heart  by  always  asking  after 
Madame. 

"  You  look  tired,  citizen,"  said  the  porter  ;  "  let  me  bring  you 
a  glass  of  wine." 

"  Thank  you,  mon  ami,  no.  Perhaps  later,  if  I  have  time, 
after  we  break  up,  to  pay  my  respects  to  Madame." 

The  porter  smiled,  bowed,  and  retired  muttering,  "  Nom 
d'un  petit  bonhomme — //  riy  a  rien  de  tel  que  les  belles  manieres" 

Left  alone,  Lebeau  leaned  his  elbow  on  the  table,  resting  his 
chin  on  his  hand,  and  gazing  into  the  dim  space,  for  it  was  now, 
indeed,  night,  and  little  light  came  through  the  grimy  panes  of 
the  one  window  left  unclosed  by  shutters.  He  was  musing 


228  THE    PARISIANS. 

deeply.  This  man  was,  in  much,  an  enigma  to  himself.  Was 
he  seeking  to  unriddle  it?  A  strange  compound  of  contra- 
dictory elements.  In  his  stormy  youth  there  had  been  lightning- 
like  flashes  of  good  instincts,  of  irregular  honor,  of  inconsistent 
generosity — a  puissant,  wild  nature,  with  strong  passions  of  love 
and  of  hate,  without  fear,  but  not  without  shame.  In  other 
forms  of  society  that  love  of  applause  which  had  made  him 
seek  and  exult  in  the  notoriety  which  he  mistook  for  fame 
might  have  settled  down  into  some  solid  and  useful  ambition. 
He  might  have  become  great  in  the  world's  eye,  for  at  the  ser- 
vice of  his  desires  there  were  no  ordinary  talents.  Though  too 
true  a  Parisian  to  be  a  severe  student,  still,  on  the  whole,  he 
had  acquired  much  general  information,  partly  from  books, 
partly  from  varied  commerce  with  mankind.  He  had  the  gift, 
both  by  tongue  and  by  pen,  of  expressing  himself  with  force 
and  warmth — time  and  necessity  had  improved  that  gift.  Cov- 
eting, during  his  brief  career  of  fashion,  the  distinctions  which 
necessitate  lavish  expenditure,  he  had  been  the  most  reck- 
less of  spendthrifts,  but  the  neediness  which  follows  waste 
had  never  destroyed  his  original  sense  of  personal  honor. 
Certainly,  Victor  de  Mauleon  was  not,  at  the  date  of  his  fall,  a 
man  to  whom  the  thought  of  accepting,  much  less  of  stealing, 
the  jewels  of  a  woman  who  loved  him,  could  have  occurred  as 
a  possible  question  of  casuistry  between  honor  and  temptation. 
Nor  could  that  sort  of  question  have,  throughout  the  sternest 
trials  or  the  humblest  callings  to  which  his  after-life  had  been 
subjected,  forced  admission  into  his  brain.  He  was  one  of 
those  men,  perhaps  the  most  terrible  though  unconscious 
criminals,  who  are  the  offsprings  produced  by  intellectual  power 
and  egotistical  ambition.  If  you  had  offered  to  Victor  de 
Mauleon  the  crown  of  the  Caesars,  on  condition  of  his  doing 
one  of  those  base  things  which  "  a  gentleman"  cannot  do — pick 
a  pocket,  cheat  at  cards — Victor  de  Mauleon  would  have  refused 
the  crown.  He  would  not  have  refused  on  account  of  any 
laws  of  morality  affecting  the  foundations  of  the  social  system, 
but  from  the  pride  of  his  own  personality.  "  I,  Victor  de 
Mauleon  !  I  pick  a  pocket !  I  cheat  at  cards  !  I !  "  But 
when  something  incalculably  worse  for  the  interests  of  society 
than  picking  a  pocket  or  cheating  at  cards  was  concerned  ; 
when,  for  the  sake  either  of  private  ambition  or  political  experi- 
ment hitherto  untested,  and  therefore  very  doubtful,  the  peace 
and  order  and  happiness  of  millions  might  be  exposed  to  the 
release  of  the  most  savage  passions — rushing  on  revolutionary 
madness  or  civil  massacre — then  this  French  daredevil  would 


THE    PARISIANS.  229 

have  been  just  a."  unscrupulous  as  any  English  philosopher 
whom  a  metropolitan  borough  might  elect  as  its  representative. 
The  system  of  the  Empire  was  in  the  way  of  Victor  de  Mau- 
leon— in  the  way  of  his  private  ambition,  in  the  way  of  his 
political  dogmas — and  therefore  it  must  be  destroyed,  no  matter 
what  nor  whom  it  crushed  beneath  its  ruins.  He  was  one  of 
those  plotters  of  revolutions  not  uncommon  in  democracies, 
ancient  and  modern,  who  invoke  popular  agencies  with  the  less 
scruple  because  they  have  a  supreme  contempt  for  the  popu- 
lace. A  man  with  mental  powers  equal  to  De  Mauleon's,,and 
who  sincerely  loves  the  people  and  respects  the  grandeur  of 
aspiration  with  which,  in  the  great  upheaving  of  their  masses, 
they  so  of  ten  contrast  the  irrational  credulities  of  their  ignorance 
and  the  blind  fury  of  their  wrath,  is  always  exceedingly  loth  to 
pass  the  terrible  gulf  that  divides  reform  from  revolution.  He 
knows  how  rarely  it  happens  that  genuine  liberty  is  not  disarmed 
in  the  passage,  and  what  sufferings  must  be  undergone  by  those 
who  live  by  their  labor  during  the  dismal  intervals  between  the 
sudden  destruction  of  one  form  of  society  and  the  gradual 
settlement  of  another.  Such  a  man,  however,  has  no  type  in  a 
Victor  de  Mauleon.  The  circumstances  of  his  life  had  placed 
this  strong  nature  at  war  with  society,  and  corrupted  into  misan- 
thropy affections  that  had  once  been  ardent.  That  misanthropy 
made  his  ambition  more  intense,  because  it  increased  his  scorn 
for  the  human  instruments  it  employed. 

Victor  de  Mauleon  knew  that,  however  innocent  of  the 
charges  that  had  so  long  darkened  his  name,  and  however, 
thanks  to  his  rank,  his  manners,  his  scivoir  vivre,  the  aid  of 
l.ouvier's  countenance,  and  the  support  of  his  own  high-born 
connections,  he  might  restore  himself  to  his  rightful  grade  in 
private  life,  the  higher  prizes  in  public  life  would  scarcely  be 
within  reach,  to  a  man  of  his  antecedents  and  stinted  means, 
in  the  existent  form  and  conditions  of  established  political 
order.  Perforce,  the  aristocrat  must  make  himself  democrat 
if  he  would  become  a  political  chief.  Could  he  assist  in  turn- 
ing upside  down  the  actual  state  of  things,  he  trusted  to  his 
individual  force  of  character  to  find  himself  among  the  upper- 
most in  the  general  bpuleversetnent.  And  in  the  first  stage  of 
popular  revolution  the  mob  has  no  greater  darling  than  the 
noble  who  deserts  his  order,  though  in  the  second  stage  it  may 
guillotine  him  at  the  denunciation  of  his  cobbler.  A  mind  so 
sanguine  and  so  audacious  as  that  of  Victor  de  Mauleon  never 
thinks  of  the  second  step  if  it  sees  a  way  to  the  first. 

\ 


230  THE    PARISIANS. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

THE  room  was  in  complete  darkness,  save  where  a  ray  from  a 
gas-lamp  at  the  mouth  of  the  court  came  aslant  through  the  win- 
dow, when  Citizen  Le  Roux  re-entered,  closed  the  window, 
lighted  two  of  the  sconces,  and  drew  forth  from  a  drawer  in  the 
table  implements  of  writing,  which  he  placed  thereon  noise- 
lessly, as  if  he  feared  to  disturb  M.  Lebeau,  whose  head,  buried 
in  his  hands,  rested  on  the  table.  He  seemed  in  a  profound 
sleep.  At  last  the  porter  gently  touched  the  arm  of  the 
slumberer,  and  whispered  in  his  ear,  "It  is  on  the  stroke  of 
ten,  citizen  ;  they  will  be  here  in  a  minute  or  so." 

Lebeau  lifted  his  head  drowsily. 

"Eh,"  said  he;  "What?" 

"You  have  been  asleep." 

"  I  suppose  so,  for  I  have  been  dreaming.  Ha  !  I  hear  the 
door-bell.  I  am  wide  awake  now." 

The  porter  left  him,  and  in  a  few  minutes  conducted  into  the 
salon  two  men  wrapped  in  cloaks,  despite  the  warmth  of  the 
summer  night.  Lebeau  shook  hands  with  them  silently,  and 
not  less  silently  they  laid  aside  their  cloaks  and  seated  them- 
selves. Both  these  men  appeared  to  belong  to  the  upper 
section  of  the  middle  class.  One,  strongly  built,  with  a  keen 
expression  of  countenance,  was  a  Burgeon,  considered  able  i.i 
his  profession,  but  with  limited  practice,  owing  to  a  current 
suspicion  against  his  honor  in  connection  with  a  forged  will. 
The  other,  tall,  meagre,  with  long,  grizzled  hair  and  a  wild,  un- 
settled look  about  the  eyes,  was  a  man  of  science  ;  had  written 
works  well  esteemed  upon  mathematics  and  electricity,  also 
against  the  existence  of  any  other  creative  power  than  that 
which  he  called  "  nebulosity,"  and  defined  to  be  the  combina- 
tion of  heat  and  moisture.  The  surgeon  was  about  the  age  of 
forty,  the  atheist  a  few  years  older.  In  another  minute  or  so, 
a  knock  was  heard  against  the  wall.  One  of  the  men  rose  and 
touched  a  spring  in  the  panel,  which  then  flew  back,  and 
showed  an  opening  upon  a  narrow  stair,  by  which,  one  after 
the  other,  entered  three  other  members  of  the  society.  Evi- 
dently there  was  more  than  one  mode  of  ingress  and  exit. 

The  three  new-comers  were  not  Frenchmen — one  might  see 
that  at  a  glance  ;  probably  they  had  reasons  for  greater  precau- 
tion than  those  who  entered  by  the  front  door.  One,  a  tall, 
powerfully  built  man,  with  fair  hair  and  beard,  dressed  with  a 
certain  pretension  to  elegance — faded,  threadbare  elegance — 


THE    PARISIANS.  23! 

exhibiting  no  appearance  of  linen,  was  a  Pole.  One,  a  slight, 
bald  man,  very  dark  and  sallow,  was  an  Italian.  The  third, 
who  seemed  like  an  ouvrier  in  his  holiday  clothes,  was  a 
Belgian. 

Lebeau  greeted  them  all  with  an  equal  courtesy,  and  each 
with  an  equal  silence  took  his  seat  at  the  table. 

Lebeau' glanced  at  the  clock.  "  Confreres"  he  said,  "  our 
number,  as  fixed  for  this  stance,  still  needs  two  to  be  complete, 
and  doubtless  they  will  arrive  in  a  few  minutes.  Till  they 
come,  we  can  but  talk  upon  trifles.  Permit  me  to  offer  you  my 
cigar-case."  And  so  saying,  he  who  professed  to  be  no  smoker 
handed  his  next  neighbor,  who  was  the  Pole,  a  large  cigar-case 
amply  furnished  ;  and  the  Pole,  helping  himself  to  two  cigars, 
handed  the  case  to  the  man  next  him  ;  two  only  declining  the 
luxury,  the  Italian  and  the  Belgian.  But  the  Pole,  was  the 
only  man  who  took  two  cigars. 

Steps  were  now  heard  on  the  stairs,  the  door  opened,  and 
Citizen  Le  Roux  ushered  in,  one  after  the  other,  two  men,  this 
time  unmistakably  French  ;  to  an  experienced  eye  unmistak- 
ably Parisians  :  the  one  a  young,  beardless  man,  who  seemed 
almost  boyish,  with  a  beautiful  face,  and  a  stinted,  meagre 
frame  ;  the  other  a  stalwart  man  of  about,  eight-and-tvventy, 
dressed  partly  as  an  ouvrier,  not  in  his  Sunday  clothes,  rather 
affecting  the  blouse;  not  that  he  wore  that  antique  garment,  but 
that  he  was  in  rough  costume  unbrushed  and  stained,  with 
thick  shoes  and  coarse  stockings,  and  a  workman's  cap.  But  of 
all  who  gathered  round  the  table  at  which  M.  Lebeau  presided, 
he  had  the  most  distinguished  exterior.  A  virile,  honest  ex- 
terior, a  massive,  open  forehead,  intelligent  eyes,  a  handsome, 
clear-cut,  incisive  profile,  and  solid  jaw.  The  expression  of 
the  face  was  stern,  but  not  mean  :  an  expression  which  might 
have  become  an  ancient  baron  as  well  as  a  modern  workman  ; 
in  it  plenty  of  haughtiness  and  of  will,  and  still  more  of  self- 
esteem. 

"  Confreres"  said  Lebeau,  rising,  and  every  eye  turned  to 
him,  "  our  numbe'i^for  the  present  seance  is  complete.  To  busi- 
ness. Since  we  las'!  met,  our  cause  has  advanced  with  rapid 
and  not  with  noiseless  stride.  I  need  not  tell  you  that  Louis 
Bonaparte  has  virtually  abnegated  Les  ide'es  Napole'oniennes — a 
fatal  mistake  for  him,  a  glorious  advance  for  us.  The  liberty 
of  the  press  must  very  shortly  be  achieved,  and  with  it  per- 
sonal government  must  end.  When  the  autocrat  once  is  com- 
pelled to  go  by  the  advice  of  his  Ministers,  look  for  sudden 
changes.  His  Ministers  will  be  but  weathercocks,  turned 


232  THE    PARISIANS. 

hither  and  thither,  according  as  the  wind  chops  at  Paris;  and 
Paris  is  the  temple  of  the  winds.  The  new  revolution  is  almost 
at  hand."  (Murmurs  of  applause.)  "It  would  move  the 
laughter  of  the  Tuileriesand  its  Ministers,  of  the  Bourse  and  of 
its  gamblers,  of  every  dainty  salon  of  this  silken  city  of  would- 
be  philosophers  and  wits,  if  they  were  told  that  here,  within 
this  moldering  baraque,  eight  men,  so  little  blest  by  fortune,  so 
little  known  to  fame  as  ourselves,  met  to  concert  the  fall  of  an 
empire.  The  Government  would  not  deem  us-important  enough 
to  notice  our  existence." 

"  I  know  not  that,"  interrupted  the  Pole. 

"  Ah,  pardon,"  resumed  the  orator  ;  "  1  should  have  confined 
my  remark  to  the  five  of  us  who  are  French.  I  did  injustice 
to  the  illustrious  antecedents  of  our  foreign  allies.  I  know 
that  you;  Thadeus  Loubisky — that  you,  Leonardo  Raselli — 
have  been  too  eminent  for  hands  hostile  to  tyrants  not  to  be 
marked  with  a  black  cross  in  the  books  of  the  police.  I  know 
that  you,  Jan  Vanderstegen,  if  hitherto  unscarred  by  those 
wounds  in  defence  of  freedom  which  despots  and  cowards  would 
fain  miscall  the  brands  of  the  felon,  still  owe  it  to  your  special 
fraternity  to  keep  your  movements  rigidly  concealed.  The  ty- 
rant would  suppress  the  International  Society,  and  forbid  it  the 
liberty  of  congress.  To  you  three  is  granted  the  secret  entrance 
to  our  council-hall.  But  we  Frenchmen  are  as  yet  safe  in  our 
supposed  insignificance.  Confreres,  permit  me  to  impress  on  you 
the  causes  why,  insignificant  as  we  seem,  we  are  really  formid- 
able. In  the  first  place,  we  are  few  :  the  great  mistake  inmost 
secret  associations  has  been  to  admit  many  councillors  ;  and 
disunion  enters  wherever  many  tongues  can  wrangle.  In  the 
next  place,  though  so  few  in  council,  we  are  legion  when  the 
time  comes  for  action  ;  because  we  are  representative  men, 
each  of  his  own  section,  and  each  section  is  capable  of  an  in- 
definite expansion. 

"You,  valiant  Pole — you,  politic  Italian — enjoy  the  confi- 
dence of  thousands  now  latent  in  un watched  homes  and 
harmless  callings,  but  who,  when  you  lift  a  finger,  will,  like  the 
buried  dragon's  teeth,  spring  up  into  armed  men.  You,  Jan 
Vanderstegen,  the  trusted  delegate  from  Verviers,  that  swarm- 
ing camp  of  wronged  labor  in  its  revolt  from  the  iniquities  of 
capital — you,  when  the  hour  arrives,  can  touch  the  wire  that 
flashes  the  telegram  '  Arise'  through  all  the1  lands  in  which 
workmen  combine  against  their  oppressors. 

"Of  us  five  Frenchmen,  let  me  speak  more  modestly.  You, 
sage  and  scholar,  Felix  Ruvigny,  honored  alike  for  the  pro- 


THE    PARISIANS.  233 

fundity  of  your  science  and  the  probity  of  your  manners,  in- 
duced to  join  us  by  your  abhorrence  of  priestcraft  and 
superstition — you  have  a  wide  connection  among  all  the  en- 
lightened reasoners  who  would  emancipate  the  mind  of  man 
from  the  trammels  of  Church-born  fable  ;  and  when  the  hour 
arrives  in  which  it  is  safe  to  say,  l  Delenda  est  Roma,'  you  know 
where  to  find  the  pens  that  are  more  victorious  than  swords 
against  a  Church  and  a  Creed.  You  "  (turning  to  the  surgeon), 
"  you,  Gaspard  le  Noy,  whom  a  vile  calumny  has  robbed  of 
the  throne  in  your  profession,  so  justly  due  to  your  skill — you, 
nobly  scorning  the  rich  and  great,  have  devoted  yourself  to 
tend  and  heal  the  humble  and  the  penniless,  so  that  you  have 
won  the  popular  title  of  the  '  Mtdecin  des  Pauvres,' — when  the 
time  comes  wherein  soldiers  shall  fly  before  the  sans  culottes, 
and  the  mob  shall  begin  the  work  which  they  who  move  mobs 
will  complete,  the  clients  of  Gaspard  le  Noy  will  be  the 
avengers  of  his  wrongs. 

"You,  Armand  Monnier,  simple  ouvrier,  but  of  illustrious 
parentage,  for  your  grandsire  was  the  beloved  friend  of  the 
virtuous  Robespierre,  your  father  perished  a  hero  and  a  mar- 
tyr in  the  massacre  of  the  coup  d'etat — you,  cultured  in  the 
eloquence  of  Robespierre  himself,  and  in  the  persuasive 
philosophy  of  Robespierre's  teacher,  Rousseau — you,  the 
idolized  orator  of  the  Red  Republicans — you  will  be  in- 
deed a  chief  of  dauntless  bands  when  the  trumpet  sounds  for 
battle.  Young  publicist  and  poet,  Gustave  Rameau — I  care 
not  which  you  are  at  present,  1  know  what  you  will  be  soon — 
you  need  nothing  for  the  development  of  your  powers  over  the 
many  but  an  organ  for  their  manifestation.  Of  that  anon.  I 
now  descend  into  the  bathos  of  egotism.  I  am  compelled 
lastly  to  speak  of  myself.  It  was  at  Marseilles  and  Lyons,  as 
you  already  know,  that  I  first  conceived  the  plan  of  this  repre- 
sentative association.  For  years  before  I  had  been  in  familiar 
intercourse  with  friends  of  freedom — that  is,  with  the  foes  of 
the  Empire.  They  are  not  all  poor  ;  some  few  are  rich  and 
generous.  I  do  not  say  these  rich  and  few  concur  in  the  ulti- 
mate objects  of  the  poor  and  many  ;  but  they  concur  in  the 
first  object,  the  demolition  of  that  which  exists-1- the  Empire. 
In  the  course  of  my  special  calling  of  negotiator  or  agent  in 
the  towns  of  the  Midi,  I  formed  friendships  with  some  of  these 
prosperous  malcontents.  And  out  of  these  friendships  I  con- 
ceived the  idea  which  is  embodied  in  this  council. 

"  According  to  that  conception,  while  the  council  may  com- 
municate as  it  will  with  all  societies,  secret  or  open,  having 


234  THE    PARISIANS. 

revolution  for  their  object,  the  council  refuses  to  merge  itself 
in  any  other  confederation  :  it  stands  aloof  and  independent  ; 
it  decline's  to  admit  into  its  code  any  special  articles  of  faith  in 
a  future  beyond  the  bounds  to  which  it  limits  its  design  and  its 
force.  That  design  unites  us  ;  to  go  beyond  would  divide. 
We  all  agree  to  destroy  the  Napoleonic  dynasty  ;  none  of  us 
might  agre,e  as  to  what  we  should  place  in  its  stead.  All  of  us 
here  present  might  say  'A  republic.'  Ay,  but  of  what  kind? 
Vanderstegen  would  have  it  socialistic  ;  Monnier  goes  further, 
and  would  have  it  communistic,  on  the  principles  of  Fourier  ; 
Le  Noy  adheres  to  the  policy  of  Danton,  and  would  commence 
the  republic  by  a  reign  of  terror  ;  our  Italian  ally  abhors  the 
notion  of  general  massacre,  and  advocates  individual  assassina- 
tion. Ruvigny  would  annihilate  the  worship  oFa  Deity  ;  Mon- 
nier holds  with  Voltaire  and  Robespierre,  that,  'if  there  were 
no  Deity,  it  would  be  necessary  to  man  to  create  one.'  J3rcf, 
we  could  not  agree  upon  any  plan  for  the  new  edifice,  and 
therefore  we  refuse  to  discuss  one  till  the  ploughshare  has 
gone  over  the  ruins  of  the  old.  But  I  have  another  and 
m6re  practical  reason  for  keeping  our  council  distinct  from  all 
societies  with  professed  objects  beyond  that  of  demolition. 
We  need  a  certain  command  of  money.  It  is  I  who  bring  to 
you  that,  and — how  ?  Not  from  my  own  resources  ;  they  but 
suffice  to  support  myself.  Not  by  contributions  from  ouvriers^ 
who,  as  you  well  know,  will  subscribe  only  for  their  own  ends 
in  the  victory  of  workmen  over  masters.  I  bring  money  to  you 
from  the  coffers  of  the  rich  malcontents.  Their  politics  are 
not  those  of  most  present  ;  their  politics  are  what  they  term 
moderate.  Some  are  indeed  for  a  republic,  but  for  a  republic 
strong  in  defence  of  order,  in  support  of  property  ;  others — and 
they  are  the  more  numerous  and  the  more  rich — for  a  consti- 
tutional monarchy,  and,  if  possible,  for  the  abridgement  of 
universal  suffrage,  which,  in  their  eyes,  tends  only  to  anarchy 
in  the  towns  and  arbitrary  rule  under  priestly  influence  in  the 
rural  districts.  They  would  not  subscribe  a  sou  if  they  thought 
it  went  to  further  the  designs,  whether  of  Ruvigny  the  atheist, 
or  of  Monnier,  who  would  enlist  the  Deity  of  Rousseau  on  the  side 
of  the  drapeau  rouge — hot  SLSOU  if  they  knew  I  had  the  honor  to 
boast  such  confreres  as  I  see  around  me.  They  subscribe,  as  we 
concert,  for  the  fall  of  Bonaparte.  The  policy  I  adopt  I  borrow 
from  the  policy  of  the  English  Liberals.  In  England,  potent 
millionnaires,  high-born  dukes,  devoted  Churchmen,  belonging 
to  the  Liberal  party,  accept  the  services  of  men  who  look  for- 
Y/ard  to  measures  which  would  ruin  capital,  eradicate  aristoc* 


THE    PARISIANS.  235 

racy,  and  destroy  the  Church,  provided  these  men  combine 
with  them  in  some  immediate  step  onward  against  the  Tories. 
They  have  a  proverb  which  I  thus  adapt  to  French  localities  : 
if  a  train  passes  Fontainebleau  on  its  way  to  Marseilles,  why 
should  I  not  take  it  to  Fontainebleau  because  other  passengers 
are  going  on  to  Marseilles  ? 

"  Confreres,  it  seems  to  me  the  moment  has  come  when  we 
may  venture  some  of  the  fund  placed  at  my  disposal  to  other 
purposes  than  those  to  which  it  has  been  hitherto  devoted.  I 
propose,  therefore,  to  set  up  a  journal  under  the  auspices  of 
Gustave  Rameau  as  editor-in-chief — a  journal  which,  if  he  lis- 
ten to  my  advice,  will  create  no  small  sensation.  It  will  begin 
with  a  tone  of  impartiality  :  it  will  refrain  from  all  violence  of 
invective  ;  it  will  have  wit,  it  will  have  sentiment  and  eloquence  ; 
it  will  win  its  way  into  the  salons  and  cafes  of  educated  men  ; 
and  then,  and  then,  when  it  does  change  from  polished  satire 
into  fierce  denunciation  and  sides  With  the  blouses,  its  effect 
will  be  startling  and  terrific.  Of  this  I  will  say  more  to  Citi- 
zen Rameau  in  private.  To  you  I  need  not  enlarge  upon  the 
fact  that,  at  Paris,  a  combination  of  men,  though  immeasurably 
superior  to  us  in  status  or  influence,  without  a  journal  at  com- 
mand, is  nowhere;  with  such  a  journal,  written  not  to  alarm 
but  to  seduce  fluctuating  opinions,  a  combination  of  men  im- 
measurably inferior  to  us  may  be  anywhere. 

"  Confreres,  this  affair  settled,  I  proceed  to  distribute  amongst 
you  sums  of  which  each  who  receives  will  render  me  an  ac- 
count, except  our  valued  confrere  the  Pole.  All  that  we  can 
subscribe  to  the  cause  of  humanity,  a  representative  of  Poland 
requires  for  himself."  (A  suppressed  laugh  among  all  but  the 
Pole,  who  looked  round  with  a  grave,  imposing  air,  as  much  as 
to  say,  "  What  is  there  to  laugh  at  ?  A  simple  truth.") 

M.  Lebeau  then  presented  to  each  of  his  confreres  a  sealed 
envelope,  containing  no  doubt  a  banknote,  and  perhaps  also 
private  instructions  as  to  its  disposal.  It  was  one  of  his  rules 
to  make  the  amount  of  any  sum  granted  to  an  individual  mem- 
ber of  the  society  from  the  fund  at  his  disposal  a  confidential 
secret  between  himself  and  the  recipient.  Thus  jealousy  was 
avoided  if  the  sums  were  unequal  ;  and  unequal  they  generally 
were.  .In  the  present  instance  the  two  largest  sums  we're  given 
to  the  Me"decin  des  Pauvres  and  to  the  delegate  from  Verviers. 
Both  were  no  doubt  to  be  distributed  among  "the  poor,"  at 
the  discretion  of  the  trustee  appointed. 

Whatever  rules  with  regard  to  the  distribution  of  money  M.. 
Lebeau  laid  down  were  acquiesced  in  without  demur,  for  the 


236  THE    PARISIANS. 

money  was  found  exclusively  by  himself,  and  furnished  with- 
out the  pale  of  the  Secret  Council,  of  which  he  had  made  him- 
self founder  and  dictator.  Some  other  business  was  then  dis- 
cussed, sealed  reports  from  each  member  were  handed  to  the 
president,  who  placed  them  unopened  in  his  pocket,  and  re- 
sumed : 

"  Confreres,  our  seance  is  now  concluded.  The  period  for  our 
next  meeting  must  remain  indefinite,  for  I  myself  shall  leave 
Paris  as  soon  as  I  have  set  on  foot  the  journal,  on  the  details 
of  which  I  will  confer  with  Citizen  Rameau.  I  am  not  satis- 
lied  with  the  progress  made  by  the  two  travelling  missionaries 
who  complete  our  Council  of  Ten  ;  and  though  1  do  not  ques- 
tion their  zeal,  I  think  my  experience  may  guide  it  if  I  take  a 
journey  to  the  towns  of  Bordeaux  and  Marseilles,  where  they 
now  are.  But  should  circumstances  demanding  concert  or 
action  arise,  you  may  be  sure  that  I  will  either  summon  a 
meeting  or  transmit  instructions  to  such  of  our  members  as  may 
be  most  usefully  employed.  For  the  present,  confreres,  you 
are  relieved.  Remain  only  you,  dear  young  author." 


CHAPTER  VII. 

LEFT  alone  with  Gustave  Rameau,  the  President  of  the 
Secret  Council  remained  silently  musing  for  some  moments; 
but  his  countenance  was  no  longer  moody  and  overcast ;  his 
nostrils  were  dilated,  as  in  triumph  ;  there  was  a  half-smile  of 
pride  on  his  lips.  Rameau  watched  him  curiously  and  admir- 
ingly. The  young  man  had  the  impressionable,  excitable  tem- 
perament common  to  Parisian  genius,  especially  when  it  nour- 
ishes itself  on  absinthe.  He  enjoyed  the  romance  of  belong- 
ing to  a  secret  society  ;  he  was  acute  enough  to  recognize  the 
sagacity  by  which  the  small  conclave  was  kept  out  of  those 
crazed  combinations  for  impracticable  theories  more  likely  to 
lead  adventurers  to  the  Tarpeian  Rock  than  to  the  Capitol  ; 
while  yet  those  crazed  combinations  might,  in  some  critical 
moment,  become  strong  instruments  in  the  hands  of  practical 
ambition.  Lebeau  fascinated  him,  and  took  colossal  propor- 
tions in*  his  intoxicated  vision — vision  indeed  intoxicated  at 
this  moment,  for  before  it  floated  the  realized  image  of  his 
aspirations :  a  journal  of  which  he  was  to  be  the  editor-in- 
chief ;  in  which  his  poetry,  his  prose,  should  occupy  space  as 
large  as  he  pleased  ;  through  which  his  name,  hitherto  scarce 
known  beyond  a  literary  clique,  would  resound  in  salon  and 


THE   PARISIANS.  237 

club  and  cafe,  and  become  a  familiar  music  on  the  lips  of 
fashion.  And  he  owed  this  to  the  man  seated  there — a  pro- 
digious man. 

"  Cher poete,"  said  Lebeau,  breaking  silence,  "it  gives  me  no 
mean  pleasure  to  think  I  am  opening  a  career  to  one  whose 
talents  fit  him  for  those  goals  on  which  they  who  reach  write 
names  that  posterity  shall  read.  Struck  with  certain  articles 
of  yours  in  the  journal  made  celebrated  by  the  wit  and  gayety 
of  Savarin,  I  took  pains  privately  to  inquire  into  your  birth, 
your  history,  connections,  antecedents.  All  confirmed  my 
first  impression,  that  you  were  exactly  the  writer  I  wish  to  se- 
cure to  our  cause.  I  therefore  sought  you  in  your  room,  unin- 
troduced  and  a  stranger,  in  order  to  express  my  admiration  of 
your  compositions.  -Href,  we  soon  became  friends  ;  and  after 
comparing  minds,  I  admitted  you,  at  your  request,  into  the 
Secret  Council.  Now,  in  proposing  to  you  the  conduct  of  the 
journal  I  would  establish,  for  which  I  am  prepared  to  find  all 
necessary  funds,  I  am  compelled  to  make  imperative  condi- 
tions. Nominally  you  will  be  editor-in-chief :  that  station,  if 
the  journal  succeeds,  will  secure  your  position  and  fortune  ;  if 
it  fail,  you  fail  with  it.  But  we  will  not  speak  of  failure  ;  I 
must  have  it  succeed.  Our  interest,  then,  is  the  same.  Before 
that  interest  all  puerile  vanities  fade  away.  Nominally,  I  say, 
you  are  editor-in-chief;  but  all  the  real  work  of  editing  will, 
at  first,  be  done  by  others." 

"Ah  !  "  exclaimed  Rameau,  aghast  and  stunned.  Lebeau 
resumed : 

"To  establish  the  journal  I  propose  needs  more  than  the 
genius  of  youth  ;  it  needs  the  tact  and  experience  of  mature 
years." 

Rameau  sank  back  on  his  chair  with  a  sullen  sneer  on  his 
pale  lips.  Decidedly  Lebeau  was  not  so  great  a  man  as  he  had 
thought. 

"A  certain  portion  of  the  journal,"  continued  Lebeau,  "will 
be  exclusively  appropriated  to  your  pen." 

Rameau's  lip  lost  its  sneer. 

"  But  your  pen  must  be  therein  restricted  to  compositions  of 
pure  fancy,  disporting  in  a  world  that  does  not  exist  ;  or,  if  on 
graver  themes  connected  with  the  beings  of  the  world  that  does 
exist,  the  subjects  will  be  dictated  to  you  and  revised.  Yet 
even  in  the  higher  departments  of  a  journal  intended  to  make 
way  at  its  first  start,  we  need  the  aid,  not  indeed  of  men  who 
write  better  than  you,  but  of  men  whose  fame  is  established  ; 
whose  writings,  good  or  bad,  the  public  run  to  read,  and  will 


238  THE  PARISIANS, 

find  good  even  if  they  are  bad.  You  must  consign  one  column 
to  the  playful  comments  and  witticisms  of  Savarin." 

"Savarin  ?  But  he  has  a  journal  of  his  pwn.  He  will  not, 
as  an  author,  condescend  to  write  in  one  just  set  up  by  me. 
And  as  a  politician,  he  as  certainly  will  not  aid  in  an  ultra- 
de.mocratic  revolution.  If  he  care  for  politics  at  all,  he  is  a 
constitutionalist,  an  Orleanist." 

'''Enfant!  as  an  author  Savarin  will  condescend  to  con- 
tribute to  your  journal,  firstly,  because  it  in  no  way  attempts 
to  interfere  with  his  own  ;  secondly — I  can  tell  you  a  secret — 
Savarin's  journal  no  longer  suffices  for  his  existence  ;  he  has 
sold  more  than  two-thirds  of  its  property  ;  he  is  in  debt,  and  his 
creditor  is  urgent  ;  and  to-morrow  you  will  offer  Savarin  30,000 
francs  for  one  column  from  his  pen,  and  signed  by  his  name, 
for  two  months  from  the  day  the  Journal  starts.  He  will  ac- 
cept, partly  because  the  sum  will  clear  off  the  debt  that  ham- 
pers him,  partly  because  he  will  take  care  that  the  amount  be- 
comes known  ;  and  that  will  help  him  to  command  higher 
terms  for  the  sale  of  the  remaining  shares  in  the  journal  he 
now  edits,  for  the  new  book  which  you  told  me  he  intended  to 
write,  and  for  the  new  journal  which  he  will  be  sure  to  set  up  as 
soon  as  he  has  disposed  "of  the  old  one.  You  say  that,  as  a  poli- 
tician, Savarin,  an  Orleanist,  will  not  aid  in  an  ultra-democratic 
revolution.  Who/asks  him  to  do  so?  Did  I  not  imply  at  the 
meeting  that  we  commence  our  journal  with  politics  the  mild- 
est? Though  revolutions  are  not  made  with  rose-water,  it  is 
rose-water  that  nourishes  their  roots.  The  polite  cynicism  of 
authors,  read  by  those  who  float  on  the  surface  of  society,  pre- 
pares the  way  for  the  social  ferment  in  its  deeps.  Had  there 
been  no  Voltaire,  there  would  have  been  no  Camille  Desmou- 
lins.  Had  there  been  no  Diderot,  there  would  have  been  no 
Marat.  We  start  as  polite  cynics.  Of  all  cynics  Savarin  is 
the  politest.  But  when  I  bid  high  for  him,  it  is  his  clique  that 
I  bid  for.  Without  his  clique  he  is  but  a  wit ;  with  his  clique, 
a  power.  Partly  out  of  that  clique,  partly  out  of  a  circle  be- 
yond it,  which  Savarin  can  more  or  less  influence,  I  select  ten. 
Here  is  the  list  of  them  ;  study  it.  Entre  nous,  I  esteem  their 
writings  as  little  as  I  do  artificial  flies  ;  but  they  are  the  arti- 
ficial flies  at  which,  in  this  particular  season  of  the  year,  the 
public  rise.  You  must  procure  at  least  five  of  the  ten  ;  and 
I  leave  you  carte  blanche  as  to  the  terms.  Savarin  gained,  the 
best  of  them  will  be  proud  of  being  his  associates.  Observe, 
none  of  these  messieurs  of  brilliant  imagination  are  to  write 
political  articles ;  those  will  be  furnished  to  you  anonymously, 


THE   PARISIANS.  239 

and  inserted  without  erasure  or  omission.  When  you  have 
secured  Savarin,  and  five  at  least  of  the  collaborateurs  in  the 
list,  write  to  me  at  my  office.  I  give  you  four  days  to  do  this  ; 
and  the  day  the  journal  starts  you  enter  into  the  income  of 
15,000  francs  a  year,  with  a  rise  in  salary  proportioned  to 
profits.  Are  you  contented  with  the  terms  ?  " 

"  Of  course  I  am  ;  but  supposing  I  do  not  gain  the  aid  of 
Savarin,  or  five  at  least  of  the  list  you  give,  which  I  see  at  a 
glance  contains  names  the  most  a  la  mode  in  this  kind  of 
writing,  more  than  one  of  them  of  high  social  rank,  whom  it  is 
difficult  for  me  even  to  approach — if,  I  say,  I  fail  ?" 

"What,  with  "a  carte  blanche  of  terms?  Fie!  Are  you  a 
Parisian  ?  Well,  to  answer  you  frankly,  if  yo«  fail  in  so  easy  a 
task,  you  are  not  the  man  to  edit  our  journal,  and  I  shall  find 
another.  Allez  courage !  Take  my  advice;  see  Savarin  the 
first  thing  to-morrow  morning.  Of  course,  my  name  and  call- 
ing you  will  keep  a  profound  secret  from  him  as  from  all.  Say 
as  mysteriously  as  you  can  that  parties  you  are  forbidden  to 
name  instruct  you  to  treat  with  M.  Savarin,  and  offer  him  the 
terms  I  have  specified,  the  30,000  francs  paid  to  him  in  advance 
the  moment  he  signs  the  simple  memorandum  of  agreement. 
The  more  mysterious  you  are,  the  more  you  will  impose — that 
is,  wherever  you  offer  money  and  don't  ask  for  it." 

Here  Lebeau  took  up  his  hat,  and,  with  a  courteous  nod  of 
adieu,  lightly  descended  the  gloomy  stairs. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

A^night,  after  this  final  interview  with  Lebeau,  Graham  took 
leave  for  good  of  his  lodgings  in  Montmartre,  and  returned  to 
his  apartment  in  the  Rue  d'Anjoih  He  spent  several  hours  of 
the  next  morning  in  answering  n-umerous  letters,  accumulated 
during  his  absence.  Late  in  the  afternoon  he  had  an  interview 
with  M.'  Renard,  who,  as  at  that  season  of  the  year  he  was  not 
overbusied  with  other  affairs,  engaged  to  obtain  leave  to  place 
his  services  at  Graham's  command  during  the  time  requisite  for 
inquiries  at  Aix,  and  to  be  in  readiness  to  start  the  next  day. 
Graham  then  went  forth  to  pay  one  or  two  farewell  visits  ;  and 
these  over,  bent  his  way  through  the  Champs  Elysees  towards 
Isaura's  villa,  when  he  suddenly  encountered  Rochebriant  on 
horseback.  The  Marquis  courteously  dismounted,  committing 
his  horse  to  the  care  of  the  groom,  and,  linking  his  arm  in 
Graham's,  expressed  his  pleasure  at  seeing  him  again ;  then 


PARISIANS. 

with  some  visible  hesitation  and  embarrassment,  he  turned  the 
conversation  towards  the  political  aspects  of  France. 

"  There  was,"  he  said,  *'  much  in  certain  words  of  yours, 
when  we  last  walked  together  in  this  very  path,  that  sank  deeply 
into  my  mind  at  the  time,  and  over  which  I  have  of  late  still 
more  earnestly  reflected.  You  spoke  of  the  duties  a  French- 
man owed  to  France,  and  the 'impolicy  '  of  remaining  aloof 
from  all  public  employment  on  the  part  of  those  attached  to 
the  Legitimist  cause." 

"  True,  it  cannot  be  the  policy  of  any  party  to  forget  that 
between  the  irrevocable  past  and  the  uncertain  future  there  in- 
tervenes the  action  of  the  present  time." 

"  Should  you,  as  an  impartial  bystander,  consider  it  dishon- 
orable in  me  if  I  entered  the  military  service  under  the  ruling 
sovereign  ?" 

"  Certainly  not,  if  your  country  needed  you." 

"And  it  may,  may  it  not?  I  hear  vague  rumors  of  coming 
war  in  almost  every  salon  I  frequent.  There  has  been  gun- 
powder in  the  atmosphere  we  breathe  ever  since  the  battle  of 
Sadowa.  What  think  you  of  German  arrogance  and  ambition  ? 
Will  they  suffer  the  swords  of  France  to  rust  in  their  scabbards  ?" 

"My  dear  Marquis,  I  should  incline  to  put  the  question 
otherwise.  Will  the  jealous  amour  propre  of  France  permit 
the  swords  of  Germany  to  remain  sheathed?  But  in  either 
case,  no  politician  can  see  without  grave  apprehension  two  na- 
tions so  warlike,  close  to  each  other,  divided  by  a  border-land 
that  one  covets  an'd  the  other  will  not  yield,  each  armed  to  the 
teeth  ;  the  one  resolved  to  brook  no  rival,  the  other  equally 
determined  to  resist  all  aggression.  And  therefore,  as  you  say, 
wa/  is  in  the  atmosphere  ;  and  we  may  also  hear,  in  the  clouds 
that  give  no  sign  of  dispersion,  the  growl  of  the  gathering 
thunder.  War  may  come  any  day  ;  and  if  France  be  not  at 
once' the  victor — " 

"France  not  at  once  the  victor?"  interrupted  Alain  passion- 
ately ;  "and  against  a  Prussian  !  Permit  me  to  say  no  French- 
man can  believe  that." 

"  Let  no  man  despise  a  foe,"  said  Graham,  smiling  half 
sadly.  "  However,  I  must  not  incur  the  danger  of  wounding 
your  national  susceptibilities.  To  return  to  the  point  you 
raise.  If  France  needed  the  aid  of  her  best  and  bravest,  a  true 
descendant  of  Henri  Quatre  ought  to  blush  for  his  ancient 
noblesse  were  a  Rochebriant  to  say,  '  But  I  don't  like  the  color 
of  the  flag.'  " 

"Thank  you,"  said  Alain  simply  ;  "  that  is  enough."     There 


THE    PARISIANS.  24! 

was  a  pause,  the  young  men  walking  on  slowly,  arm  in  arm. 
And  then  there  flashed  across  Graham's  mind  the  recollection 
of  talk  on  another  subject  in  that  very  path.  Here  he  had 
spoken  to  Alain  in  deprecation  of  any  possible  alliance  with 
Isaura  Cicogna,  the  destined  actress  and  public  singer.  His 
cheek  flushed  ;  his  heart  smote  him.  What  !  had  he  spoken 
slightingly  of  her — of  her  ?  What — if  she  became  his  own 
wife  ?  What  ! — had  he  himself  failed  in  the  respect  which  he 
would  demand  as  her  right  from  the  loftiest  of  his  high-born 
kindred  ?  What,  too,  would  this  man,  of  fairer  youth  than  him- 
self, think  of  that  disparaging  counsel,  when  he  heard  that  the 
monitor  had  \von  the  prize  from  which  he  had  warned  another? 
Would  it  not  seem  that  he  had  but  spoken  in  the  mean  cun- 
ning dictated  by  the  fear  of  a  worthier  rival  ?  Stung  by  these 
thoughts  he  arrested  his  steps,  and,  looking  the  Marquis  full  in 
the  face,  said  :  "You  remind  me  of  one  subject  in  our  talk 
many  weeks  since,  it  is  my  duty  to  remind  you  of  another.  At 
that  time  you,  and,  speaking  frankly,  I  myself,  acknowledged 
the  charm  in  the  face  of  a  young  Italian  lady.  I  told  you  then 
that,  on  learning  she  was  intended  for  the  stage,  the  charm  for 
me  had  vanished.  I  said,  bluntly,  that  it  should  vanish  per- 
haps still  more  utterly  for  a  noble  of  your  illustrious  name; 
you  remember  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  answered  Alain  hesitatingly,  and  with  a  look  of  sur- 
prise. 

"  I  wish  now  to  retract  all  I  said  thereon.  Mademoiselle 
Cicogna  is  not  bent  on  the  profession  for  which  she  was  edu- 
cated. She  would  willingly  renounce  all  idea  of  entering  it. 
The  only  counterweight  which,  viewed  whether  by  niy  reason 
•or  my  prejudices,  could  be  placed  in  the  opposite  scale  to  that 
of  the  excellences  which  might  make  any  man  proud  to  win 
her,  is  withdrawn.  I  have  become  acquainted  with  her  since 
the  date  of  our  conversation.  Hers  is  a  mind  which  harmo- 
nizes with  the  loveliness  of  her  face.  In  one  word,  Marquis,  I 
should  deem  myself  honored,  as  well  as  blest,  by  such  a  bride. 
It  was  due  to  her  that  I  should  say  this  ;  it  was  due  also  to 
you,  in  case  you  retain  the  impression  I  sought  in  ignorance  to 
efface.  And  I  am  bound,  as  a  gentleman,  to  obey  this  twofold 
duty,  even  though  in  so  doing  I  bring  upon  myself  the  afflic- 
tion of  a  candidate  for  the  hand  to  which  I  would  fain,  myself 
aspire — a  candidate  with  pretensions  in  every  way  far  superior 
to  my  own." 

An  older  or  a  more  cynical  man  than  Alain  de  Rochebriant 
might  well  have  found  something  suspicious  in  a  confession 


242  .  THE    PARISIANS. 

thus  singularly  volunteered  ;  but  the  Marquis  was  himself  SO 
loy;il  that  he  had  no  doubt  of  the  loyalty  of  Graham. 

"  I  reply  to  you,"  he  said,  "  with  a  frankness  which  finds  an 
example  in  your  own.  The  first  fair  face  which  attracted  my 
fancy  since  my  arrival  at  Paris  was  that  of  the  Italian  demoi- 
selle of  whom  you  speak  in  terms  of  such  respect.  I  do  think 
if  I  had  then  been  thrown  into  her  society,  and  found  her  to 
be  such  as  you  no  doubt  truthfully  describe,  that  fancy  might 
have  become  a  very  grave  emotion.  I  was  then  so  poor,  so 
friendless,  so  despondent.  Your  words  of  warning  impressed 
me  at  the  time,  but  less  durably  than  you  might  suppose  ;  for 
that  very  night  as  I  sat  in  my  solitary  attic  I  said  to  myself, 
'  Why  should  I  shrink,  with  an  obsolete,  old-world  prejudice, 
from  what  my  forefathers  would  have  termed  a  mesalliance  ? 
What  is  the  value  of  my  birthright  now  ?  None  ;  worse  than 
none.  It  excludes  me  from  all  careers  ;  my  name  is  but  a 
load  that  weighs  me  down.  Why  should  I  make  that  name  a 
curse  as  well  as  a  burden  ?  Nothing  is  left  to  me  but  that 
which  is  permitted  to  all  men — wedded  and  holy  love.  Could 
I  win  to  my  heart  the  smile  of  a  woman  who  brings  me  that 
dower,  the  home  of  my  fathers  would  lose  its  gloom.'  And 
therefore,  if  at  that  time  I  had  become  familiarly  acquainted 
with  her  who  had  thus  attracted  my  eye  and  engaged  my 
thoughts,  she  might  have  become  my  destiny  ;  but  now  !  " 

"  But  now  ?  " 

"  Things  have  changed.  I  am  no  longer  poor,  friendless, 
solitary.  I  have  entered  the  world  of  my  equals  as  a  Roche- 
briant  ;  I  have  made  myself  responsible  for  the  dignity  of  my 
name.  I  could  not  give  that  name  to  one,  however  peerless  in 
herself,  of  whom  the  world  would  say,  '  But  for  her  marriage 
she  would  have  been  a  singer  on  the  stage  !  '  I  will  own 
more  :  the  fancy  I  conceived  for  the  first  fair  face,  other  fair 
faces  have  dispelled.  At  this  moment,  however,  I  have  no 
thought  of  marriage  ;  and  having  known  the  anguish  of  struggle, 
the  privations  of  poverty,  I  would  ask  no  woman  to  share  the 
hazard  of  my  return  to  them.  You  might  present  me,  then,  safely 
to  this  beautiful  Italian — certain,  indeed,  that  I  should  be  her 
admirer  ;  equally  certain  that  I  could  not  become  your  rival." 

There  was  something  in  this  speech  that  jarred  upon 
Graham's  sensitive  pride.  But,  on  the  whole,  he  felt  relieved, 
both  in  honor  and  in  heart.  After  a  few  more  words,  the  two 
young  men  shook  hands  and  parted.  Alain  remounted  his 
horse.  The  day  was  now  declining.  Graham  hailed  a  vacant 
fiacre,  and  directed  the  driver  to  Isaura's  villa. 


THE  PARISIANS.  243 

CHAPTER  IX. 

ISAURA. 

THE  Sun  was  sinking  slowly  as  Isaura  sat  at  her  window^ 
gazing  dreamily  on  the  rose-hued  clouds  that  made  the  western 
border-land  between  earth  and  heaven.  On  the  table  before 
her  lay  a  few  sheets  of  MS.,  hastily  written,  not  yet  reperused. 
That  restless  mind  of  hers  had  left  its  trace  on  the  MS. 

It  is  characteristic  perhaps  of  the  different  genius  of  the  sexes, 
that  woman  takes  to  written  composition  more  impulsively, 
more  intuitively,  than  man  ;  letter-writing,  to  him  a  task-work, 
is  to  her  a  recreation.  Between  the  age  of  sixteen  and  the 
date  of  marriage,  six  well-educated,  clever  girls  out  of  ten  keep 
a  journal ;  not  one  well-educated  man  in  ten  thousand  does. 
So,  without  serious  and  settled  intention  of  becoming  an  author, 
how  naturally  a  girl  of  ardent  feeling  and  vivid  fancy  seeks  in 
poetry  or  romance  a  confessional,  an  outpouring  of  thought 
and  sentiment,  which  are  mysteries  to  herself  till  she  has  given 
them  words,  and  which,  frankly  revealed  on  the  page,  she  would 
not,  perhaps  could  not,  utter  orally  to  a  living  ear. 

During  the  last  few  days,  the  desire  to  create  in  the  realm  of 
fable  beings  constructed  by  her  own  breath,  spiritualized  by 
her  own  soul,  had  grown  irresistibly  upon  this  fair  child  of 
song.  In  fact,  when  Graham's  words  had  decided  the  renun- 
ciation of  her.  destined  career,  her  instinctive  yearnings  for  the 
utterance  of  those  sentiments  or  thoughts  which  can  only  find 
expression  in  some  form  of  art,  denied  the  one  vent,  irresistibly 
impelled  her  to  the  other.  And  in  this  impulse  she  was  con- 
firmed by  the  thought  that  here  at  least  there  was  nothing  which 
her  English  friend  could  disapprove — none. of  the  perils  that 
beset  the  actress.  Here  it  seemed  as  if,  could  she  but  succeed, 
her  fame  would  be  grateful  to  the  pride  of  all  who  loved  her. 
Here  was  a  career  ennobled  by  many  a  woman,  and  side  by 
side  in  rivalry  with  renowned  men.  To  her  it  seemed  that, 
could  she  in  this  achieve  an  honored  name,  that  name  took  its 
place  at  once  amid  .the  higher  ranks  of  the  social  world,  and 
in  itself  brought  a  priceless  dowry  and  a  starry  crown.  It 
was,  however,  not  till  after  the  visit  to  Enghien  that  this  ambi- 
tion took  practical  life  and  form. 

One  evening  after  her  return  to  Paris,  by  an  effort  so  invol- 
untary that  it  seemed  to  her  no  effort,  she  had  commenced  a 
tale — without  plan,  without  method,  without  knowing  in  one 
page  what  would  fill  the  next.  Her  slight  fingers  hurried  on 


244  THE   PARISIANS. 

as  if,  like  the  pretended  spirit  manifestations,  impelled  by  an 
invisible  agency  without  the  pale  of  the  world.  She  was  intox- 
icated by  the  mere  joy  of  inventing  ideal  images.  In  her  own 
special  art  an  elaborate  artist,  here  she  had  no  thought  of  art  ; 
if  art  was  in  her  work,  it  sprang  unconsciously  from  the  har- 
mony between  herself  and  her  subject,  as  it  is,  perhaps,  with 
the  early  soarings  of  the  genuine  lyric  poets,  in  contrast  to  the 
dramatic.  For  the  true  lyric  poet  is  intensely  personal,  in- 
tensely subjective.  It  is  himself  that  he  expresses,  that  he 
represents — and  he  almost  ceases  to  be  lyrical  when  he  seeks 
to  go  out  of  his  own -existence  into  that  of  others  with  whom 
he  has  no  sympathy,  no  rapport.  This  tale  was  vivid  with 
genius  as  yet  untutored  ;  genius  in  its  morning  fresh- 
ness, full  of  beauties,  full  of  faults.  Isaura  distinguished 
not  the  faults  from  the  beauties.  She  felt  only  a  vngue 
persuasion  that  there  was  a  something  higher  and  bright- 
er,-zf  something  more  true  to  her  own  idiosyncracy,  than 
could  be  achieved  by  the  art  that  "  sings  ot4ier  people's  words 
to  other  people's  music."  From  the  work  thus  commenced  she 
had  now  paused.  And  it  seemed  to  her  fancies  that  between 
her  inner  self  and  the  scene  without,  whether  in  the  skies  and 
air  and  sunset,  or  in  the  abodes  of  men  stretching  far  and  near, 
till  lost  amid  the  roofs  and  domes  of  the  great  city,  she  had 
fixed  and  riveted  the  link  of  a  sympathy  hitherto  fluctuating, 
unsubstantial,  evanescent,  undefined.  Absorbed  in  her  rev- 
ery,  she  did  not  notice  the  deepening  of  the  short  twilight,  till 
the  servant  entering  drew  the  curtains  between  her  and  the 
world  without,  and  placed  the  lamp  on  the  table  beside  her. 
Then  she  turned  away  with  a  restless  sigh,  her  eyes  fell  on  the 
MS.,  but  the  charm  of  it  was  gone.  A  sentiment  of  distrust  in 
its  worth  had  crept-into  her  thoughts,  unconsciously  to  herself, 
and  the  page  open  before  her  at  an  uncompleted  sentence 
seemed  unwelcome  and  wearisome  as  a  copy-book  is  to  a  child 
condemned  to  relinquish  a  fairy  tale  half  told,  and  apply  him- 
self to  a  task  half  done.  She  fell  again  into  a  revery,  when, 
starting  as  from  a  dream,  she  heard  herself  addressed  by  name, 
and  fuming  round  saw  Savarin  and  Gustave  Rameau  in  the 
room. 

"  We  are  come,  Signorina,"  said  Savarin,  "  to  announce  to 
you  a  piece  of  news,  and  to  hazard  a  petition.  The  news  is 
this  :  my  young  friend  here  has  found  a  Maecenas  who  has  the 
good  taste  so  to  admire  his  lucubrations  under  the  nom  de  plume 
of  Alphonse  de  Valcour  as  to  volunteer  the  expenses  for  start- 
ing a  new  journal,  of  which  Gustave  Rameau  is  to  be  editor- 


THE    PARISIANS.  245 

in-chief  ;  and  I  havj  promised  to  assist  him  as  contributor  for 
the  first  two  months.  I  have  given  him  notes  of  introduction 
to  certain  Q\\\Q\  feuillctonistcs  and  critics  whom  he  lias  on  his 
list.  But  all  put  together  would  riot  serve  to  float  the  journal 
like  a  short  roman  from  Madame  de  Grantmesnil.  Knowing 
your  intimacy  with  that  eminent  artist,  I  venture  to  back  Ra- 
meau's  supplication  that  you  would  exert  your  influence  on  his 
behalf.  As  to  the  honoraires,  she  has  but  to  name  them." 

"  Carle  blanche"  cried  Rameau  eagerly. 

u  You  know  Eulalie  too  well,  M.  Savarin,"  answered  Isaura, 
with  a  smile  half  reproachful,  "to  suppose  that  she  is  a  merce- 
nary in  letters,  and  sells  her  services  to  the  best  bidder." 

"  Bah,  belle  enfante  !  "  said  Savarin,  with  his  gay,  light  laugh. 
"  Business  is  business,  and  books,  as  well  as  razors,  are  made  to 
sell.  But,  of  course,  a  proper  prospectus  of  the  journal  must 
accompany  your  request  to  write  in  it.  Meanwhile  Rameau 
will  explain  to  you,  as  he  has  done  to  me,  that  the  journal  in 
question  is  designed  for  circulation  among  readers  of  les  hautes 
classes :  it  is  to  be  pleasant  and  airy,  full  of  bon  mots  and  anec- 
dote ;  witty,  but  not  ill-natured.  Politics  to  be  lib'eral,  of 
course,  but  of  elegant  admixture — champagne  and  seltzer 
water.  In  fact,  however,  I  suspect  that  the  politics  will  be  a 
very  inconsiderable  feature  in  this  organ  of  fine  arts  and  man- 
ners ;  some  amateur  scribbler  in  the  beau  monde  will  supply 
them.  For  the  rest,  if  my  introductory  letters  are  successful, 
Madame  de  Grantmesnil  will  not  be  in  bad  company." 

"  You  will  write  to  Madame  de  Grantmesnil  ?  "  asked  Ra- 
meau pleadingly. 

"  Certainly  I  will,  as  soon — " 

"As  soon  as  you  have  the  prospectus,  and  the  names  of  the 
collaborateurs,"  interrupted  Rameau.  "  I  hope  to  send  you 
these  in  a  very  few  days." 

While  Rameau  was  thus  speaking,  Savarin  had  seated  him- 
self by  the  table,  and  his  eye  mechanically  resting  on  the  open 
MS.  lighted  by  chance  upon  a  sentence,  an  aphorism,  embody- 
ing a  very  delicate  sentiment  in  very  felicitous  diction.  One 
of  those  choice  condensations  of  thought  suggesting  so  much 
more  than  is  said,  which  are  never  found  in  mediocre  writers, 
and,  rare  even  in  the  best,  come  upon  us  like  truths  seized  by 
surprise. 

"  Morbleu  !  "  exclaimed  Savarin,  in  the  impulse  of  genuine 
admiration,  "  but  this  is  beautiful  ;  what  is  more,  it  is  original," 
and  he  read  the  words  aloud.  Blushing  with  shame  and  re- 
sentment, Isaura  turned  and  hastily  placed  her  hand  on  the  MS. 


246  THE    PARISIANS. 

"  Pardon,"  said  Suvarin  humbly  ;  "I  confess  my  sin,  but  it 
was  so  unpremeditated  that  it  does  not  merit  a.  severe  penance. 
Do  not  look  at  me  so  reproachfully.  We  all  know  that  young 
ladies  keep  commonplace-bfroks  in  which  they  enter  passages 
that  strike  them  in  the  works  they  read.  And  you  have  but 
shown  an  exquisite  taste  in  selecting  this  gem.  Do  tell  me 
where  you  found  it.  Is  it  somewhere  in  Lamartine  ?" 

"  No,"  answered  Isaura  half  inaudibly,  and  with  an  effort  to 
withdraw  the  paper.  Savarin  gently  detained  her  hand,  and 
looking  earnestly  into  her  tell-tale  face,  divined  her  secret. 

"  It  is  your  own,  Signorina  !  Accept  the  congratulations  of 
a  very  practised  and  somewhat  fastidious  critic.  If  the  rest  of 
what  you  write  resembles  this  sentence,  contribute  to  Rameau's 
journal,  and  I  answer  for  its  success." 

Rameau  approached  half  incredulous,  half  envious. 

"  My  dear  child,"  resumed  Savarin,  drawing  away  the  MS. 
from  Isaura's  coy,  reluctant  clasp,  "  do  permit  me  to  cast  a 
glance  over  these  papers.  For  what  I  yet  know,  there  may  be 
here  more  promise  of  fame  than  even  you  could  gain  as  a 
singer.'* 

The  electric  chord  in  Isaura's  heart  was  touched.  Who  can- 
not conceive  what  the  young  writer  feels,  especially  the  young 
woman-writer,  when  hearing  the  first  cheery  note  of  praise  from 
the  lips  of  a  writer  of  established  fame  ? 

"  Nay,  this  cannot  be  worth  your  reading,"  said  Isaura  falter- 
ingly  >  "  I  have  never  written  anything  of  the  kind  before,  and 
this  is  a  riddle  to  me.  I  know  not,"  she  added  with  a  sweet, 
low  laugh,  "  why  I  began,  nor  how  I  should  end  it." 

"  So  much  the  better,"  said  Savarin  ;  and  he  took  the  MS., 
withdrew  to  a  recess  by  the  further  window,  and  seated  him- 
self there,  reading  silently  and  quickly,  but  now  and  then  with 
a  brief  pause  of  reflection. 

Rameau  placed  himself  beside  Isaura  on  the  divan,  and 
began  talking  with  her  earnestly — earnestly,  for  it  was  about 
himself  and  his  aspiring  hopes.  Isaura,  on  the  other  hand, 
more  woman-like  than  author-like,  ashamed  even  to  seem  ab- 
sorbed in  herself  and  her  hopes,  and  with  her  back  turned,  in 
the  instinct  of  that  shame,  against  the  reader  of  her  MS. — 
Isaura  listened  and  sought  to  interest  herself  solely  in  the 
young  fellow-author.  Seeking  to  do  so  she  succeeded  genu- 
inely, for  ready  sympathy  was  a  prevailing  characteristic  of  her 
nature. 

"  Oh,"  said  Rameau,  "  I  am  at  the  turning-point  of  my  life. 
Ever  since  boyhood  I  have  been  haunted  with  the  words  of 


THE    PARISIANS.  247 

Andre  Chenier  on  the  morning  he  was  led  to  the  scaffold  : 
'And  yet  there  was  something  here,'  striking  his  forehead. 
Yes,  I,  poor,  low-born,  launching  myself  headlong  in  the  chase 
of  a  name ;  I,  underrated,  uncomprehended,  indebted  even  for 
a  hearing  to  the  patronage  of  an  amiable  trifler  like  Savarin, 
ranked  by  petty  rivals  in  a  grade  below  themselves — I  now 
see  before  me,  suddenly,  abruptly  presented,  the  expanding 
gates  into  fame  and  fortune.  Assist  me,  you  !  " 

"But  how?"  said  Isaura,  already  forgetting  her  MS. ;  and 
certainly  Rameau  did  not  refer  to  that. 

"  How  !  "  echoed  Rameau  ;  "  How  !  But  do  you  not  see — 
or,  at  least,  do  you  not  conjecture — this  journal  of  which 
Savarin  speaks  contains  my  present  and  my  future?  Present 
independence,  opening  to  fortune  and  renown.  Ay,  and  who 
shall  say?  renown  beyond  that  of  the  mere  writer.  Behind 
the  gaudy  scaffolding  of  vhis  rickety  Empire,  a  new  social  edi- 
fice unperceived  arises  ;  and  in  that  edifice  the  halls  of  State 
shall  be  given  to  the  men  who  help  obscurely  to  build  it — to 
men  like  me."  Here,  drawing  her  hand  into  his  own,  fixing 
on  her  the  most  imploring  gaze  of  his  dark  persuasive  eyes, 
and  utterly  unconscious  of  bathos  in  his  adjuration,  he  added  : 
"  Plead  for  me  with  your  whole  mind  and  heart  ;  use  your  ut- 
termost influence  with  the  illustrious  writer,  whose  pen  can  as- 
sure the  fates  of  my  journal." 

Here  the  door  suddenly  opened,  and  following  the  servant, 
who  announced  unintelligibly  his  name,  there  entered  Graham 
Vane. 

CHAPTER  X. 

THE  Englishman  halted  at  the  threshold.  His  eyes,  pass- 
ing rapidly  over  the  figure  of  Savarin  reading  in  the  window- 
niche,  rested  upon  Rameau  and  Isaura  seated  on  the  same 
divan,  he  with  her  hand  clasped  in  both  his  own,  and  bending 
his  face  towards  hers  so  closely  that  a  loose  tress  of  her  hair 
seemed  to  touch  his  forehead. 

The  Englishman  halted,  and  no  revolution  which  changes 
the  habitudes  and  forms  of  States  was  ever  so  sudden  as  that 
which  passed  without  a  word  in  the  depths  of  his  unconjectured 
heart.  The  heart  has  no  history  which  philosophers  can  rec- 
ognize. An  ordinary  political  observer,  contemplating  the 
condition  of  a  nation,  may  very  safely  tell  us  what  effects  must 
follow  the  causes  patent  to  his  eyes.  But  the  wisest  and  most 
far-seeing  sage,  looking  at  a  man  at  one  o'clock,  cannot  tell  us 


248  THE    PARISIANS. 

what  revulsions  of  his  whole  being  may  be  made  ere  the  clock 
strike  two. 

As  Isaura  rose  to  greet  her  visitor,  Savarin  came  from  the 
window-niche,  the  MS.  in  his  hand. 

"  Son  of  perfidious  Albion,"  said  Savarin  gayly,  "we  feared 
you  had  deserted  the  French  alliance.  Welcome  back  to  Paris, 
and  the  entente  cordiale." 

"  Would  I  could  stay  to  enjoy  such  welcome.  But  I  must 
again  quit  Paris." 

"  Soon  to  return,  nest-ce  pas?  Paris  is  an  irresistible  magnet 
to  It-s  beaux  esprits.  Apropos  of  beaux  efprits,  be  sure  to  leave 
orders  with  your  bookseller,  if  you  have  one,  to  enter  your 
name  as  a  subscriber  to  a  new  journal." 

"  Certainly,  if  M.  Savarin  recommends  it." 

"  He  recommends  it  as  a  matter  of  course ;  he  writes  in  it," 
said  Rameau. 

*'A  sufficient  guarantee  for  its  excellence.  What  is  the 
name  of  the  journal?  " 

"  Not  yet  thought  of,"  answered  Savarin.  "  Babes  must  be 
born  before  they  are  christened  ;  but  it  will  be  instruction 
enough  to  your  bookseller  to  order  the  new  journal  to  be  edited 
by  Gustave  Rameau." 

Bowing  ceremoniously  to  the  editor  in  prospect,  Graham 
said,  half  ironically,  "  May  I  hope  that  in  the  department  of 
criticism  you  will  not  be  too  hard  upon  poor  Tasso?" 

"  Never  fear  ;  theSignorina,  who  adores  Tasso,  will  take  him 
under  her  special  protection,"  said  Savarin,  interrupting  Ra- 
meau's  sullen  and  embarrassed  reply. 

Graham's  brow  slightly  contracted.  "Mademoiselle,"  he 
said,  "is  then  to  be  united  in  the  conduct  of  this  journal  with 
M.  Gustave  Rameau?  " 

"  No,  indeed  !  "  exclaimed  Isaura,  somewhat  frightened  at 
the  idea. 

"But  I  hope,"  said  Savarin,  "that  the  Signorina  may  become 
a  contributor  too  important  for  an  editor  to  offend  by  insulting 
her  favorites,  Tasso  included.  Rameau  and  I  came  hither  to 
entreat  her  influence  with  her  intimate  and  illustrious  friend, 
Madame  de  Grantmesnil,  to  insure  the  success  of  our  under- 
taking by  sanctioning  the  announcement  of  her  name  as  a  con- 
tributor." 

"  Upon  social  questions — such  as  the  laws  of  marriage  ?  " 
said  Graham,  with  a  sarcastic  smile,  which  concealed  the  quiver 
of  his  lip  and  the  pain  in  his  voice. 

"Nay,"  answered  Savarin,  "our  journal  will  be  too  sportive, 


THE    PARISIANS.  249 

I  hope,  for  matters  so  profound.  We  would  rather  have  Madame 
de  Grantmesnil's  aid  in  some  short  rowan,  which  will  charm 
the  fancy  of  all  and  offend  the  opinions  of  none.  But  since  I 
came  into  the  room,  I  care  less  for  the  Signorina's  influence 
with  the  great  authoress,"  and  he  glanced  significantly  at 
the  MS. 

"  How  so  ?  "uisked  Graham,  his  eye  following  the  glance. 

"  If  the  writer  of  this  MS.  will  conclude  what  she  has  begun, 
we  shall  be  independent  of  Madame  de  Grantmesnil." 

"  Fie  !  "  cried  Isaura  impulsively,  her  face  and  neck  bathed 
in  blushes — "  Fie  !  such  words  are  a  mockery." 

Graham  gazed  at  her  intently,  and  then  turned  his  eyes  on 
Savarin.  He  guessed  aright  the  truth.  "  Mademoiselle  then 
is  an  author?  In  the  style  of  her  friend  Madame  de  Grant- 
mesnil ? " 

"  Bah  !  "  said  Savarin,  "  I  should  indeed  be  guilty  of  mockery 
if  I  paid  the  Signorina  so  false  a  compliment  as  to  say  that  in 
a  first  effort  she  attained  to  the  style  of  one  of  the  most  finished 
sovereigns'  of  language  that  has  ever  swayed  the  literature  of 
France.  When  I  say,  '  Give  us  this  tale  completed,  and  I  shall 
be  consoled  if  the  journal  does  not  gain  the  aid  of  Madame  de 
Grantmesnil,'  I  mean  that  in  these  pages  there  is  that  nameless 
charm  oT  freshness  and  novelty  which  compensates  for  many 
faults  never  committed  by  a  practised  pen  like  Madame  de 
Grantmesnil's.  My  dear  young  lady,  go  on  with  this  story — 
finish  it.  When  finished,  do  not  disdain  any  suggestions  I  may 
offer  in  the  way  of  correction.  And  I  will  venture  to  predict 
to  you  so  brilliant  a  career  as  author,  that  you  will  not  regret 
should  you  resign  for  that  career  the  bravos  you  could  com- 
mand as  actress  and  singer."  The  Englishman  pressed  his 
hand  convulsively  to  his  heart,  as  if  smitten  by  a  sudden  spasm. 
But  as  his  eyes  rested  on  Isaura's  face,  which  had  become 
radiant  with  the  enthusiastic  delight  of  genius  when  the  path 
it  would  select  opens  before  it  as  if-  by  a  flash  from  heaven, 
whatever  of  jealous  irritation,  whatever  of  selfish  pain  he  might 
before  have  felt,  was  gone,  merged  in  a  sentiment  of  unutter- 
able sadness  and  compassion.  Practical  man  as  he  was,  he 
knew  so  well  all  the  dangers,  all  the  snares,  all  the  sorrows,  all 
the  scandals  menacing  name  and  fame,  that  in  the  world  of 
Paris  must  beset  the  fatherless  girl  who,  not  less  in  authorship 
than  on  the  stage,  leaves  the  safeguard  of  private  life  forever 
behind  her,  who  becomes  a  prey  to  the  tongues  of  the  public. 
At  Paris,  how  slender  is  the  line  that  divides  the  authoress 
from  the  Bohe'mienne !  He  sank  into  his  chair  silently,  and 


250  THE  PARISIANS. 

passed  his  hand  over  his  eyes  as  if  to  shut  out  a  vision  of  the 
future. 

Isaura  in  her  excitement  did  not  notice  the  effect  on  her 
English  visitor.  She  could  not  have  divined  such  an  effect  as 
possible.  On  the  contrary,  even  subordinate  to  her  joy  at  the 
thought  that  she  had  not  mistaken  the  instincts  which  led  her 
to  a  nobler  vocation  than  that  of  the  singer,  that  the  cage-bar 
was  opened,  and  space  bathed  in  sunshine  was  inviting  the 
new-felt  wings — subordinate  even  to  that  joy  was  a  joy  more 
wholly,  more  simply  woman's.  "  If,"  thought  she  in  this  joy, 
"  if  this  be  true,  my  proud  ambition  is  realized  ;  all  disparities 
of  worth  and  fortune  are  annulled  between  me  and  him  to 
whom  I  would  bring  no  shame  of  mesalliance  /"  Poor  dream- 
er, poor  child  ! 

"  You  will  let  me  see  what  you  have  written,"  said  Rameau, 
somewhat  imperiously,  in  the  sharp  voice  habitual  to  him,  and 
which  pierced  Graham's  ear  like  a  splinter  of  glass. 

"No,  not  now;  when  finished." 

"  You  will  finish  it  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes  ;  how  can  I  help  ijt,  after  such  encouragement  ?  " 
She  held  out  her  hand  to  Savarin,  who  kissed  it  gallantly  ;  then 
her  eyes  intuitively  sought  Graham's.  By  that  time  he  had  re- 
covered his  self-possession  :  he  met  her  look  tranquilly  and 
with  a  smile  ;  but  the  smile  chilled  her — she  knew  not  why. 

The  conversation  then  passed  upon  books  and  authors  of 
the  day,  and  was  chiefly  supported  by  the  satirical  pleasantries 
of  Savarin,  who  was  in  high  good  spirits. 

Graham,  who,  as  we  know,  had  come  with  the  hope  of  see- 
ing Isaura  alone,  and  with  the  intention  of  uttering  words 
which,  however  guarded,  might  yet  in  absence  serve  as  links  of 
union,  now  no  longer  coveted  that  interview,  no  longer  medi- 
tated those  words.  He  soon  rose  to  depart. 

"  Will  you  dine  with  me  to-morrow  ?  "  asked  Savarin.  "  Per- 
haps I  may  induce  the  Signorina  and  Rameau  to  offer  you  the 
temptation  of  meeting  them." 

"  By  to-morrow  I  shall  be  leagues  away." 

Isaura's  heart  sank.     This  time  the  MS.  was  fairly  forgotten. 

"  You  never  said  you  were  going  so  soon,"  cried  Savarin. 
"When  do  you  come  back,  vile  deserter  ?" 

"I  cannot  even  guess.  Monsieur  Rameau,  count  meamong 
your  subscribers.  Mademoiselle,  my  best  regards  to  Signora 
Venosta.  When  I  see  you  again,  no  doubt  you  will  have  be- 
come famous." 

Isaura  here  could  not  control  herself.     She  rose  impulsively, 


THE   PARISIANS.  2^1 

and  approached  him,  holding  out  her  hand  and  attempting  a 
smile. 

"But  not  famous  in  the  way  that  you  warned  me  from, "she 
said,  in  whispered  tones.  "You  are  friends  with  me  still?" 
It  was  like  the  piteous  wail  of  a  child  seeking  to  make  it  up 
with  one  who  wants  to  quarrel,  the  child  knows  not  why. 

Graham  was  moved,  but  what  could  he  say  ?  Could  he 
have  the  right  to  warn  her  from  this  profession  also  ;  forbid 
all  desires,  all  roads  of  fame  to  this  brilliant  aspirant?-  Even  a 
declared  and  accepted  lover  might  well  have  deemed  that  that 
would  be  to  ask  too  much.  He  replied,  "  Yes,  always  a  friend 
if  you  could  ever  need  one."  Her  hand  slid  from  his,  and  she 
turned  away,  wounded  to  the  quick. 

'  Have  you  your  coupe  at  the  door?"  asked  Savarin. 

'Simply  a  fiacre." 

'And  are  you  going  back  at  once  to  Paris  ?  " 

'  Yes." 

'Will  you  kindly  drop  me  in  the  Rue  de  Rivoli  ?" 

'  Charmed  to  be  of  use." 


CHAPTER  XI. 

As  the  nacre  bore  to  Paris  Savarin  and  Graham,  the  former 
said,  "I  cannot  conceive  what  rich  simpleton  could  entertain 
so  high  an  opinion  of  Gustave  Rameau  as  to  select  a  man  so 
young,  and  of  reputation,  though  promising,  so  undecided,  for 
an  enterprise  which  requires  such  a  degree  of  tact  and  judg- 
ment as  the  conduct  of  a  new  journal  ;  and  a  journal,  too, 
which  is  to  address  itself  to  the  beau  monde.  However,  it  is 
not  for  me  to  criticise  a  selection  which  brings  a  godsend  to 
myself." 

"  To  yourself?  You  jest  ;  you  have  a  journal  of  your  own. 
It  can  only  be  through  an  excess  of  good-nature  thatyou  lend 
your  name  and  pen  to  the  service  of  M.  Gustave  Rameau." 

"My  good-nature  does  not  go  to  that  extent.  It  is  Rameau 
who  confers  a  service  upon  me.  Peste  !  mon  cher,  we  Fr§nch 
authors  have  not  the  rehts  of  you  rich  English  milords.  And 
though  I  am  the  most  economical  of  our  tribe,  yet  that  journal 
of  mine  has  failed  me  of  late  ;  and  this  morning  I  did  not  ex- 
actly see  how  I  was  to  repay  a  sum  I  had  been  obliged  to  bor- 
row of  a  money-lender — for  I  am  too  proud  to  borrow  of 
friends,  and  too  sagacious  to  borrow  of  publishers — when  in 
walks  ce  cher  petit  Gustave  with  an  offer  fora  few  trifles  towards 


252  THE   PARISIANS. 

Starting  this  new-born  journal,  which  makes  a  new  man  of  nl«j. 
Now  1  am  in  the  undertaking,  my  amour  propre  and  my  repu- 
tation are  concerned  in  its  success  ;  and  I  shall  take  care  that 
callaborateurs  of  whose  company  I  am  not  ashamed  are  in  the 
same  boat.  But  that  charming  girl,  Isaura  !  What  an  enigma 
the  gift  of  the  pen  is  !  No  one  can  ever  guess  who  has  it  until 
tried." 

"  The.^oung  lady's  MS.,  then,  really  merits  the  praise  you 
bestowed  on  it  ?  " 

"  Much  more  praise,  though  a  great  deal  of  blame,  which  I 
did  not  bestow.  For  in  a  first  work  faults  insure  success  as 
much  as  beauties.  Anything  better  than  tame  correctness. 
Yes,  her  first  work,  to  judge  by  what  is  written,  must  make  a 
hit — a  great  hit.  And  that  will  decide  her  career  ;  a  singer, 
an  actress  may  retire,  often  does  when  she  marries  an  author. 
But  once  an  author  always  an  author." 

"  Ah  !  is  it  so  ?  If  you  had  a  beloved  daughter,  Savarin, 
would  you  encourage  her  to  be  an  author?" 

"Frankly,  no  ;  principally  because  in  that  case  the  chances 
are  that  she  would  marry  an  author;  and  French  authors,  at  least 
in  the  imaginative  school,  make  very  uncomfortable  husbands." 

"Ah  !  you  think  the  Signorina  will  marry  one  of  those  un- 
comfortable husbands — M.  Rameau,  perhaps?" 

"  Rameau !  Hein!  nothing  more  likely.  That  beautiful 
face  of  his  has  its  fascination.  And  to  tell  you  the  truth,  my 
wife,  who  is  a  striking  illustration  of  the  truth  that  what 
woman  wills  heaven  wills,  is  bent  upon  that  improvement  in 
Gustave's  moral  life  which  she  thinks  a  uniqn  with  Mademoi- 
selle Cicogna  would  achieve.  At  all  events,  the  fair  Italian 
would  have  in  Rameau  a  husband  who  would  not  suffer  her  to 
bury  her  talents  under  a  bushel.  If  she  succeeds  as  a  writer 
(by  succeeding  I  mean  making  money),  he  will  see  that  her 
ink-bottle  is  never  empty  ;  and  if  she  don't  succeed  as  a 
writer,  he  will  take  care  that  the  world  shall  gain  an  actress  or 
a  singer.  For  Gustave  Rameau  has  a  great  taste  for  luxury 
and  show ;  and  whatever  his  wife  can  make,  I  will  venture  to 
say  that  he  will  manage  to  spend." 

"  I  thought  you  had  an  esteem  and  regard  for  Mademoiselle 
Cicogna.  It  is  Madame  your  wife,  I  suppose,  who  has  a 
grudge  against  her  ?  " 

"  On  the  contrary,  my  wife  idolizes  her." 

"  Savages  sacrifice  to  their  idols  the  things  they  deem  of 
value..  Civilized  Parisians  sacrifice  their  idols  themselves — and 
to  a  thing  that  is  worthless." 


THE    PARISIANS.  253 

"Rameau  is  not  worthless  ;  he  has  beauty,  and  youth,  and 
talent.  My  wife  thinks  more  highly  of  him  than  I  do  ;  but  I 
must  respect  a  man  who  has  found  admirers  so  sincere  as  to 
set  him  up  in  a  journal,  and  give  him  carte  blanche  for  terms  to 
contributors.  I  know  no  man  in  Paris  more  valuable  to  me. 
His  worth  to  me  this  morning  is  30,000  francs.  I  own  I  do 
not  think  him  likely  to  be  a  very  safe  husband  ;  but  then 
French  female  authors  and  artists  seldom  take  any  husbands 
except  upon  short  leases.  There  are  no  vulgar  connubial 
prejudices  in  the  pure  atmosphere  of  art.  Women  of  genius, 
like  Madame  de  Grantmesnil,  and  perhaps  like  our  charming 
young  friend,  resemble  canary-birds — to  sing  their  best  you 
must  separate  them  from  their  mates." 

The  Englishman  suppressed  a  groan,  and  turned  the  con- 
versation. 

When  he  had  set  down  his  lively  companion,  Vane  dismissed 
his  fiacre,  and  walked  to  his  lodgings  musingly. 

"  No,"  he  said  inly  ;  "  I  must  wrench  myself  from  the  very 
memory  of  that  haunting  face — the  friend  and  pupil  of  Ma- 
dame de  Grantmesnil,  the  associate  of  Gustave  Rameau,  the 
rival  of  Julie  Caumartin,  the  aspirant  to  that  pure  atmosphere 
of  art  in  which  there  are  no  vulgar  connubial  prejudices  ! 
Could  I,  whether  I  be  rich  or  poor,  see  in  her  the  ideal  of  an 
English  wife  ?  As  it  is — as  it  is — with  this  mystery  which 
oppresses  me,  which,  still  solved,  leaves  my  own  career  insolu- 
ble— as  it  is,  how  fortunate  that  I  did  not  find  her  alone  ;  did 
not  utter  the  words  that  would  fain  have  leaped  from  my 
heart ;  did  not  say,  '  I  may  not  be  the  rich  man  1  seem,  but  in 
that  case  I  shall  be  yet  more  ambitious,  because  struggle  and 
labor  are  the  sinews  of  ambition  !  Should  I  be  rich,  will  you 
adorn  my  station  ?  Should  I  be  poor,  will  you  enricli  poverty 
with  your  smile  ?  And  can  you,  in  either  case,  forego — really, 
painlessly  forego,  as  you  led  me  to  hope — the  pride  in  your  own 
art  ? '  My  ambition  were  killed  did  I  marry  an  actress,  a  singer. 
Better  that  than  the  hungerer  after  excitements  which  are 
never  allayed,  the  struggler  in  a  career  which  admits  of  no  re- 
tirement— the  woman  to  whom  marriage  is  no  goal  ;  who 
remains  to  the  last  the  property  of  the  public,  and  glories  to 
dwell  in  a  house  of  glass  into  which  every  bystander  has  a 
right  to  peer.  Is  this  the  ideal  of  an  Englishman's  wife  and 
home  ?  No,  no  !  Woe  is  me,  no  !  " 


254  THE    PARISIANS. 

BOOK  VI. 


CHAPTER  I. 

A  FEW  weeks  after  the  date  of  the  preceding  chapter,  a  gay 
party  of  men  were  assembled  at  supper  in  one  of  the  private 
salons  of  the  Maison  Doree.  The  supper  was  given  by  Fred- 
eric Lemercier,  and  the  guests  were,  though  in  various  ways, 
more  or  less  distinguished.  Rank  and  fashion  were  not  un- 
worthily represented  by  Alain  de  Rochebriant  and  Enguer- 
rand  de  Vandemar,  by  whose  supremacy  as  'lion'  Frederic 
still  felt  rather  humbled,  though  Alain  had  contrived  to  bring 
them  familiarly  together.  Art,  Literature,  and  the  Bourse  had 
also  their  representatives — in  Henri  Bernard,  a  rising  young 
portrait-painter,  whom  the  Emperor  honored  with  his  patron- 
age ;  the  Vicomte  de  Breze,  and  M.  Savarin.  Science  was  not 
altogether  forgotten,  but  contributed  its  agreeable  delegate  in 
the  person  of  the  eminent  physician  to  whom  we  have  been 
before  introduced,  Dr.  Bacourt.  Doctors  in  Paris  are  not  so 
serious  as  they  mostly  are  in  London  ;  and  Bacourt,  a  pleasant 
philosopher  of  the  school  of  Aristippus,  was  no  unfrequent 
nor  ungenial  guest  at  any  banquet  in  which  the  Graces  re- 
laxed their  zones.  Martial  glory  was  also  represented  at  that 
social  gathering  by  a  warrior,  bronzed  and  decorated,  lately  ar- 
rived from  Algiers,  on  which  arid  soil  he  had  achieved  many 
laurels  and  the  rank  of  Colonel.  Finance  contributed  Duplessis. 
Well  it  might ;  for  Duplessis  had  just  assisted  the  host  to  a 
splendid  coup  at  the  Bourse. 

"Ah,  cher  M.  Savarin,"  says  Enguerrand  de  Vandemar, 
whose  patrician  blood  is  so  pure  from  revolutionary  taint  that 
he  is  always  instinctively  polite,  "what  a  masterpiece  in  its  way 
is  that  little  paper  of  yours  in  the  Sens  Commun,  upon  the  con- 
nection between  the  national  character  and  the  national  diet — 
so  genuinely  witty  !  For  wit  is  but  truth  made  amusing." 

"You  natter  me,"  replied  Savarin  modestly  ;  "but  I  own  I 
do  think  there  is  a  smattering  of  philosophy  in  that  trifle. 
Perhaps,  however,  the  character  of  a  people  depends  more  on 
its  drink  than  its  food.  The  wines  of  Italy — heady,  irritable, 
ruinous  to  the  digestion — contribute  to  the  character  which 
belongs  to  active  brains  and  disordered  livers.  The  Italians 
conceive  great  plans,  but  they  cannot  digest  them.  The  En- 


THE    PARISIANS.  255 

glish  common  people  drink  beer,  and  the  bearish  character  is 
stolid,  rude,  but  stubborn  and  enduring.  The  English  middle 
class  imbibe  port  and  sherry  ;  and  with  these  strong  potations 
their  ideas  become  obfuscated.  Their  character  has  no  liveli- 
ness ;  amusement  is  not  one  of  their  wants  ;  they  sit  at  home 
after  dinner  and  doze  away  the  fumes  of  their  beverage  in  the 
dulness  of  domesticity.  If  the  English  aristocracy  are  more 
vivacious  and  cosmopolitan,  it  is  thanks  to  the  wines  of  France, 
which  it  is  the  mode  with  them  to  prefer;  but  still,  like  all  pla- 
giarists, they  are  imitators,  not  inventors ;  they  borrow  our 
wines  and  copy  our  manners.  The  Germans — " 

"  Insolent  barbarians  !  "  growled  the  French  Colonel,  twirl- 
ing his  moustache  ;  "if  the  Emperor  were  not  in  his  dotage, 
their  Sadowa  would  ere  this  have  cost  them  their  Rhine." 

"  The  Germans,"  resumed  Savarin,  unheeding  the  interrup- 
tion, "drink  acrid  wines,  varied  with  beer,  to  which  last  their* 
commonalty  owes  a  quasi  resemblance  in  stupidity  and  endur- 
ance to  the  English  masses.  Acrid  wines  rot  the  teeth  :  Ger- 
mans are  afflicted  with  toothache  from  infancy.  All  people 
subject  to  toothache  are  sentimental.  Goethe  was  a  martyr  to 
toothache.  Werter  was  written  in  one  of  those  paroxysms 
which  predispose  genius  to  suicide.  But  the  German  charac- 
ter is  not  all  toothache  ;  beer  and  tobacco  step  in  to  the  relief 
of  Rhenish  acridities,  blend  philosophy  with  sentiment,  and 
give  that  patience  in  detail  which  distinguishes  their  pro- 
fessors and  their  generals.  Besides,  the  German  wines  in 
themselves  have  other  qualities  than  that  of  acridity.  Taken 
with  sour  krout  and  stewed  prunes,  they  produce  fumes  of  self- 
conceit.  A  German  has  little  of  French  vanity  ;  he  has  Ger- 
man self-esteem.  He  extends  the  esteem  of  self  to  those 
around  him  ;  his  home,  his  village,  his  city,  his  country — all 
belong  to  him.  It  is  a  duty  he  owes  to  himself  to  defend 
them.  Give  him  his  pipe  and  his  sabre,  and,  M.  le  Colonel, 
believe  me,  you  will  never  take  the  Rhine  from  him." 

"  P-r-r,"  cried  the  Colonel  ;  "  but  we  have  had  the 
Rhine." 

"We  did  not  keep  it.  And  I  should  not  say  I  had  a  franc 
piece  if  I  borrowed  it  from  your  purse  and  had  to  give  it  back 
the  next  day." 

Here  there  arose  a  very  general  hubbub  of  voices,  all  raised 
against  M.  Savarin.  Enguerrand,  like  a  man  of  good/tf#,  hast- 
ened to  change  the  conversation. 

"  Let  us  leave  these  poor  wretches  to  their  sour  wines  and 
toothaches.  We  drinkers  of  the  champagne,  all  our  own,  have 


256  THE  PARISIANS. 

only  pity  foi  the  rest  of  the  human   race.     This  new  journal, 
Le  Sens  Comtnun,  has  a  strange  title,  M.  Savarin." 

"  Yes  ;  Le  Sens  Commun  is  not  common  in  Paris,  where  we 
all  have  too  much  genius  for  a  thing  so  vulgar." 

"Pray,"  said  the  young  painter,  "tell  me  what  you  mean  by 
the  title  Le  Sens  Commun.  It  is  mysterious." 

"True,"  said  Savarin  ;  "it  may  mean  the  Sensus  Communis 
of  the  Latins,  or  the  Good  Sense  of  the  English.  The  Latin 
phrase  signifies  the  sense  of  the  common  interest ;  the  English 
phrase,  the  sense  which  persons  of  understanding  have  in  com- 
mon. I  suppose  the  inventor  of  our  title  meant  the  latter  sig- 
nification." 

"And  who  was  the  inventor?"  asked  Bacourt. 

"  That  is  a  secret  which  I  do  not  know  myself,"  answered 
Savarin. 

„  "I  guess,"  said  Enguerrand,  "  that  it  must  be  the  same  per- 
son who  writes  the  political  leaders.  They  are  most  remarka- 
ble ;  for  they  are  so  unlike  the  articles  in  other  journals, 
whether  those  journals  be  the  best  or  the  worst.  For  my  own 
part,  I  trouble  my  head  very  little  about  politics,  and  shrug 
my  shoulders  at  essays  which  reduce  the  government  of  flesh 
and  blood  into  mathematical  problems.  But  these  articles 
seem  to  be  written  by  a  man  of  the  world,  and,  as  a  man  of  the 
world  myself,  I  read  them." 

"But,"  said  the  Vicomte  de  Bre'ze,  who  piqued  himself  on 
the  polish  of  his  style,  "  they  are  certainly  not  the  composition 
of  any  eminent  writer.  No  eloquence,  no  sentiment ;  though  I 
ought  not  to  speak  disparagingly  of  a  fellow-contributor." 

"  All  that  may  be  very  true,"  said  Savarin,  "  but  M.  Enguer- 
rand is  right.  The  papers  are  evidently  the  work  of  a  man  of 
the  world,  and  it  is  for  that  reason  that  they  have  startled  the 
public,  and  established  the  success  of  Le  Sens  Commun.  But 
wait  a  week  or  two'  longer,  Messieurs,  and  then  tell  me  what 
you  think  of  a  new  roman  by  a  new  writer,  which  we  shall  an- 
nounce in  our  impression  to-morrow.  I  shall  be  disappointed, 
indeed,  if  that  does  not  charm  you.  No  lack  of  eloquence  and 
sentiment  there." 

"  I  am  rather  tired  of  eloquence  and  sentiment,"  said  Enguer- 
rand. "  Your  editor,  Gustave  Rameau,  sickens  me  of  them 
with  his  '  Starlit  Meditations  in  the  Streets  of  Paris,'  morbid 
imitations  of  Heine's  enigmatical  '  Evening  Songs.'  Your  jour- 
nal would  be  perfect  if  you  could  suppress  the  editor." 

"  Suppress  Gustave  Rameau  !  "  cried  Bernard,  the  painter^ 
*'  J  adore  his  poems,  full  of  heart  for  poor  suffering  humanity," 


THE    PARISIANS.  257 

"  Suffering  humanity  so  far  as  it  is  packed  up  in  himself," 
said  the  physician  drily,  "  and  a  great  deal  of  the  suffering  is 
bile.  But  apropos  of  your  new  journal,  Savarin,  there  is  a 
paragraph  in  it  to-day  which  excites  my  curiosity.  It  says  that 
the  Vicomte  de  Mauleon  has  arrived  in  Paris,  after  many  years 
of  foreign  travel  ;  and  then  referring  modestly  enough  to  the 
reputation  for  talent  which  he  had  acquired  in  early  youth, 
proceeds  to  indulge  in  a  prophecy  of  the  future  political  career 
of  a  man  who,  if  he  have  a  grain  of  sens  commun,  must  think  that 
the  less  said  about  him  the  better.  I  remember  him  well ;  a 
terrible  mauvais  sujet,  but  superbly  handsome.  There  was  a 
shocking  story  about  the  jewels  of  a  foreign  duchess,  which 
obliged  him  to  leave  Paris." 

"But,"  said  Savarin,  "the  paragraph  you  refer  to  hints  that 
that  story  is  a  groundless  calumny,  and  that  the  true  reason  for 
De  Mauleon's  voluntary  self-exile  was  a  very  common  one 
among  young  Parisians — he  had  lavished  away  his  fortune.  He 
returns,  when,  either  by  heritage  or  his  own  exertions,  he  has 
secured  elsewhere  a  competence." 

"  Nevertheless  I  cannot  think  that  society  will-receive  him," 
said  Bacourt.  "  When  he  left  Paris,  there  was  one  joyous  sigh 
of  relief  among  all  men  who  wished  to  avoid  duels,  and  keep 
their  wives  out  of  temptation.  Society  may  welcome  back  a 
lost  sheep,  but  not  a  reinvigorated  wolf." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  mon  c/ier"  said  Enguerrand  ;  "  society 
has  already  opened  its  fold  to  this  poor,  ill-treated  wolf.  Two 
days  ago  Louvier  summoned  to  his  house  the  surviving  relations 
or  connections  of  De  Mauleon — among  whom  are  the  Marquis  de 
Rochebriant,  the  Counts  de  Passy,  De  Beauvilliers,  De  Chavi- 
gny,  my  father,  and  of  course  his  two  sons — and  submittt/1  to 
us  the  proofs  which  completely  clear  the  Vicomte  de  Mauleon 
of  even  a  suspicion  of  fraud  or  dishonor  in  the  affair  of  the 
jewels.  The  proofs  include  the  written  attestation  of  the  Duke 
himself,  and  letters  from  that  nobleman  after  De  Mauleon's 
disappearance  from  Paris,  expressive  of  great  esteem,  and,  in- 
deed, of  great  admiration,  for  the  Vicomte's  sense  of  honor  and 
generosity  of  character.  The  result  of  this  family  council  was, 
that  we  all  went  in  a  body  to  call  on  De  Mauleon.  And  he 
dined  with  my  father  that  same  day.  You  know  enough  of 
the  Count  de  Vandemar,  and,  I  may  add,  of  my  mother,  to  be 
sure  that  they  are  both,  in  their  several  ways,  too  regardful  of 
social  conventions  to  lend  their  countenance  even  to  a  relation 
without  well  weighing  \\iepros  and  cons.  And  as  for  Raoul,  Bay- 
ard himself  could  not  be  a  greater  stickler  on  the  point  of  honor." 


258  THE    PARISIANS. 

This  declaration  was  followed  by  a  silence  that  had  the 
character  of  stupor. 

At  last  Duplessis  said  :  "  But  what  has  Louvier  to  do  in  this 
galcre?  L-ouvier  is  no  relation  of  that  well-born  vaurien  j  why 
should  he  summon  your  family  council  ?" 

"  Louvier  excused  his  interference  on  the  ground  of  early 
and  intimate  friendship  with  De  Mauleon,  who,  he  said,  came 
to  consult  him  on  arriving  at  Paris,  and  who  felt  too  proud  or 
too  timitl  to  address  relations  with  whom  he  had  long  dropped 
j  all  intercourse.  An  intermediary  was  required,  and  Louvier 
volunteered  to  take  that  part  on  himself  ;  nothing  more  natural, 
nor  more  simple.  By  the  way,  Alain,  you  dine  with  Louvier 
to  morrow,  do  you  not  ?  A  dinner  in  honor  of  our  rehabili- 
tated kinsman.  I  and  Raoul  go." 

"  Yes,  I  shall  be  charmed  to  meet  again  a  man  who,  what- 
ever might  be  his  errors  in  youth,  on  which,"  added  Alain 
slightly  coloring,  "  it  certainly  does  not  become  me  to  be 
severe,  must  have  suffered  the  most  poignant  anguish  a  man 
of  honor  can  undergo,  viz.,  honor  suspected  ;  and  who  now, 
whether  by  years  or  sorrow,  is  so  changed  that  I  cannot  recog- 
nize a  likeness  to  the  character  I  have  just  heard  given  to  him 
as  mauvais  snjet  and  vaurien." 

"  Bravo  !  "  cried  Enguerrand  ;  "  All  honor  to  courage  ! 
And  at  Paris  it  requires  great  courage  to  defend  the  absent." 

"  Nay,"  answered  Alain  in  a  low  voice.  "The gentilhomme 
who  v/ill  not  defend  another  geniilhomme  traduced  would,  as  a 
soldier,  betray  a  citadel  and  desert  a  flag." 

"You  say  M.  de  Mauleon  is  changed,"  said  De  Breze  ;  "  Yes, 
he  must  be  growing  old.  No  trace  left  of  his  good  looks  ?" 

"  Pardon  me,"  said  Enguerrand,  "  he  is  Men  conserve",  and  has 
still  a  very  handsome  head  and  an  imposing  presence.  But  one 
cannot  help  doubting  whether  he  deserved  the  formidable  rep- 
utation he  acquired  in  youth;  his  manner  is  so  singularly  mild  and 
gentle,  his  conversation  so  winningly  modest,  so  void  of  pretence, 
and  his  mode  of  life  is  as  simple  as  that  of  a  Spanish  hidalgo." 

"  He  does  not,  then,  affect  the  rdle  of  Monte  Christo,"  said  Du- 
plessis, "and  buy  himself  into  notice  like  that  hero  of  romance  ? " 

"  Certainly  not  ;  but  he  says  very  frankly  that  he  has  but  a 
very  small  income,  but  more  than  enough  for  his  wants — richer 
than  in  his  youth  ;  for  he  has  learned  content.  We  may  dis- 
miss the  hint  in  'Le  Stns  Commun*  about  his  future  political 
career  ;  at  least  he  evinces  no  such  ambition." 

"  How  could  he  as  a  Legitimist  ?"  said  Alain  bitterly.  "  What 
department  would  elect  him  ?" 


THE    PARISIANS.  259 

"  But  is  he  a  Legitimist  ?  "  asked  De  Breze. 

"  I  take  it  for  granted  that  he  must  be  that,"  answered  Alain 
h  ughtily,  "  for  he  is  a  De  Mauleon." 

•'  His  father  was  as  good  a  De  Mauleon  as  himself,  I  pre- 
•sume,"  rejoined  De  Breze  drily  ;  "and  he  enjoyed  a  place  at 
the  Court  of  Louis  Philippe,  which  a  Legitimist  could  scarcely 
accept.  Victor  did  not,  1  fancy,  trouble  his  head  about  poli- 
tics at  all,  at  the  time  I  remember  him  ;  but  to  judge  by  his 
chief  associates,  and  the  notice  he  received  from  the  Princes 
of  the  House  of  Orleans,  I  should  guess  that  he  had  no  pre- 
dilections in  favor  of  Henry  V." 

"  I  should  regret  to  think  so,"  said  Alain,  yet  more  haughtily, 
"  since  the  De  Mauleons  acknowledge  the  head  of  their  house 
in  the  representative  of  the  Rochebriants." 

"  At  all  events,"  said  Duplessis,  "  M.  de  Mauleon  appears  to 
be  a  philosopher  of  rare  stamp.  A  Parisian  who  has  known 
riches  and  is  contented  to  be  poor  is  a  phenomenon  I  should 
like  to  study.''  . 

"  You  have  that  chance  to-morrow  evening,  M.  Duplessis," 
said  Enguerrand. 

"  What !  At  M.  Louvier's  dinner  ?  Nay,  I  have  no  other 
acquaintance  with  M.  Louvier  than  that  of  the  Bourse,  and  the 
acquaintance  is  not  cordial." 

"  I  did  not  mean  at  M.  Louvier's  dinner,  but  at  the  Duchesse 
de  Tarascon's  ball.  You,  as  one  of  her  special  favorites,  will 
doubtless  honor  her  reunion." 

"  Yes  ;  I  have  promised  my  daughter  to  go  to  the  ball.  But 
the  Duchesse  is  Imperialist.  M.  de  Mauleon  seems  to  be  either 
a  Legitimist,  according  to  M.  le  Marquis,  or  an  Orleanist,  ac- 
cording to  our  friend,  De  Breze." 

"  What  of  that  ?  Can  there  \,<t  a  more  loyal  Bourbonite  than 
De  Rochebriant  ?  and  he  goes  to  the  ball.  It  is  given  out  of  the 
season  in  celebration  of  a  family  marriage.  And  the  Duchesse 
de  Tarascon  is  connected  with  Alain,  and  therefore  with  De 
Mauleon,  though  but  distantly." 

"  Ah  !     Excuse  my  ignorance  of  genealogy." 

"  As  if  the  genealogy  of  noble  names  were  not  the  history  of 
France,"  muttered  Alain  indignantly. 


CHAPTER  II. 

YES,  the  Sens  Commun  was  a  success  :  it  had  made  a  sensa- 
tion at  starting  ;  the  sensation  was   on  the  increase.      It  is 


260  THE    PARISIANS. 

difficult  for  an  Englishman  to  comprehend  the  full  influence  of 
a  successful  journal  at  Paris  ;  the  station — political,  literary, 
social — which  it  confers  on  the  contributors  who  effect  the  suc- 
cess. M.  Lebeau  had  shown  much  more  sagacity  in  selecting 
Gustave  Rameau  for  the  nominal  editor  than  Savarin  supposed 
or  my  reader  might  detect.  In  the  first  place,  Gustave  himself, 
with  all  his  defects  of  information  and  solidity  of  intellect,  was 
not  without  real  genius  ;  and  a  sort  of  genius  that,  when  kept 
in  restraint,  and  its  field  confined  to  sentiment  or  sarcasm, 
was  in  unison  with  the  temper  of  the  day  :  in  the  second  place, 
it  was  only  through  Gustave  that  Lebeau  could  have  got  at 
Savarin  ;  and  the  names  which  that  brilliant  writer  had  secured 
at  the  outset  would  have  sufficed  to  draw  attention  to  the  ear- 
liest numbers  of  the  Sens  Commun,  despite  a  title  which  did  not 
seem  allu;''ng.  But  these  names  alone  could  not  have  sufficed 
to  circulate  the  new  journal  to  the  extent  it  had  already  reached. 
This  was  due  to  the  curiosity  excited  by  leading  articles  of  a 
style  new  to  the  Parisian  public,  and  of  which  the  authorship 
defied  conjecture.  They  were  signed  Pierre  Firmin — sup- 
posed to  be  a  nom  de  plume,  as  that  name  was  utterly  unknown 
in  the  world  of  letters.  They  affected  the  tone  of  an  impar- 
tial observer  ;  they  neither  espoused  nor  attacked  any  particu- 
lar party  ;  they  laid  down  no  abstract  doctrines  of  government. 
But,  somehow  or  other,  in  language  terse  yet  familiar,  some- 
times careless  yet  never  vulgar,  they  expressed  a  prevailing 
sentiment  of  uneasy  discontent,  a  foreboding  of  some  destined 
change  in  things  established,  without  denning  the  nature  of 
such  change,  without  saying  whether  it  would  be  for  good  or 
for  evil.  In  his  criticisms  upon  individuals,  the  writer  was 
guarded  and  moderate  ;  the  keenest-eyed  censor  of  the  press 
could  not  have  found  a  pretext  for  interference  with  expression 
of  opinions  so  polite.  Of  the  Emperor  these  articles  spoke 
little,  but  that  little  was  not  disrespectful  ;  yet,  day  by  day,  the 
articles  contributed  to  sap  the  Empire.  All  malcontents  of 
every  shade  comprehended,  as  by  a  secret  of  freemasonry,  that 
in  this  journal  they  had  an  ally.  Against  religion  not  a  word 
was  uttered,  yet  the  enemies  of  religion  bought  that  journal  ; 
still,  the  friends  of  religion  bought  it  too,  for  those  articles 
treated  with  irony  the  philosophers  on  paper  who  thought  that 
their  contradictory  crotchets  could  fuse  themselves  into  any 
single  Utopia,  or  that  any  social  edifice,  hurriedly  run  up  by 
the  crazy  few,  could  become  a  permanent  habitation  for  the 
turbulent  many,  without  the  clamps  of  a  creed. 

The  tone  of  these  articles  always  corresponded  with  the  title 


THE    PARISIANS.  261 

of  the  journal — Common-sense.  It  was  to  common-sense  that  it 
appealed — appealed  in  the  utterance  of  a  man  who'  disdained 
the  subtle  theories,  the  vehement  declamation,  the  credulous 
beliefs,  or  the  inflated  bombast,  which  constitute  so  large  a 
portion  of  the  Parisian  press.  The  articles  rather  resembled 
certain  organs  of  the  English  press,  which  profess  to  be  blinded 
by  no  enthusiasm  for  anybody  or  anything,  which  find  their 
sale  in  that  sympathy  with  ill-nature  to  which  Huet  ascribes 
the  popularity  of  Tacitus,  and,  always  quietly  undermining 
institutions  with  a  covert  sneer,  never  pretend  to  a  spirit  of 
imagination  so  at  variance  with  common-sense  as  a  conjecture 
how  the  institutions  should  be  rebuilt  or  replaced. 

Well,  somehow  or  other  the  journal,  as  I  was  saying,  hit  the 
taste  of  the  Parisian  public.  It  intimated,  with  the  easy  grace 
of  an  unpremeditated,  agreeable  talker,  that  French  society,  in 
all  its  classes,  was  rotten,  and  each  class  was  willing  to  believe 
that  all  the  others  were  rotten,  and  agreed  that  unless  the 
others  were  reformed,  there  was  something  very  unsound  in 
itself. 

The  ball  at  the  DuchessedeTarascon's  was  a  brilliant  event. 
The  summer  was  far  advanced  ;  many  of  the  Parisian  holiday- 
makers  had  returned  to  the  capital,  but  the  season  had  not 
commenced,  and  a  ball  at  that  time  oT  year  was  a  very  un- 
wonted event.  But  there  was  a  special  occasion  for  this /"<?/£• .- 
a  marriage  between  a  niece  of  the  Duchesse  and  the  son  of  a 
great  official  in  high  favor  at  the  Imperial  Court. 

The  dinner  at  Louvier's  broke  up  early,  and  the  music  for 
the  second  waltz  was  sounding  when  Enguerrand,  Alain,  and 
the  Vicomte  de  Mauleon  ascended  the  stairs.  Raoul  did  not 
accompany  them  ;  he  went  very  rarely  to  any  balls,  never  to 
one  given  by  an  Imperialist,  however  nearly  related  to  him  the 
Imperialist  might  be.  But,  in  the  sweet  indulgence  of  his  good 
nature,  he  had  no  blame  for  those  who  did  go  ;  not  for  En- 
guerrand, still  less,  of  course,  for  Alain. 

Something,  too,  might  well  here  be  said  as  to  his  feelings  to- 
wards Victor  de  Mauleon.  He  had  joined  in  the  family  ac- 
quittal of  that  kinsman  as  to  the  grave  charge  of  the  jewels ; 
the  proofs  of  innocence  thereon  seemed  to  him  unequivocal 
and  decisive,  therefore  he  had  called  on  the  Vicomte  and  ac- 
quiesced in  all  formal  civilities  shown  to  him.  But,  such  acts 
of  justice  to  a  iQ\\o\\-gentil/io>nme  and  a  kinsman  duly  per- 
formed, he  desired  to  see  as  little  as  possible  of  the  Vicomte 
de  Mauleon.  He  reasoned  thus  :  "Of  every  charge  which  so- 
ciety made  against  this  man  he  is  guiltless.  But  of  all  tin 


262  THE    PARISIANS. 

claims  to  admiration  which  society  accorded  to  him,  before  it 
erroneously  condemned,  there  are  none  which  make  me  covet 
Ins  friendship,  or  suffice  to  dispel  doubts  as  to  what  he  may  be 
when  society  once  more  receives  him.  And  the  man  is  so  cap- 
tivating that  I  should  dread  his  influence  over  myself  did  I  see 
much  of  him." 

Raoul  kept  his  reasonings  to  himself,  for  he  had  that  sort 
of  charity  which  indisposes  an  amiable  man  to  be  severe  on 
bygone  offences.  In  the  eyes  of  Enguerrand  and  Alain,  and 
such  young  votaries  of  the  mode  as  they  could  influence, 
Victor  de  Maule"on  assumed  almost  heroic  proportions.  In 
the  affair  which  had  inflicted  on  him  a  calumny  so  odious,  it 
was  clear  that  he  had  acted  with  chivalrous  delicacy  of 
honor.  And  the  turbulence  and  recklessness  of  his  earlier 
years,  redeemed  as  they  were,  in  the  traditions  of  his  contem- 
poraries, by  courage  and  generosity,  were  not  offences  to 
which  young  Frenchmen  are  inclined  to  be  hapsh.  All 
question  as  to  the  mode  in  which  his  life  might  have  been 
passed  during  his  long  absence  from  the  capital,  was  merged 
in  the  respect  due  to  the  only  facts  known,  and  these  were 
clearly  proved  in  \i\spticesjustificatives.  Firstly,  That  he  had 
served  under  another  name  in  the  ranks  of  the  army  in  Algiers  ; 
had  distinguished  himself  there  for  signal  valor,  and  received, 
with  promotion,  the  decoration  of  the  cross.  His  real  name 
was  known  only  to  his  colonel,  and  on  quitting  the  service 
the  colonel  placed  in  his  hands  a  letter  of  warm  eulogy,  on  his 
conduct,  and  identifying  him  as  Victor  de  Mauleon.  Secondly, 
That  in  California  he  had  saved  a  wealthy  family  from  mid- 
night murder,  fighting  single-handed  against  and  overmastering 
three  ruffians,  and  declining  all  other  reward  from  those  he 
had  preserved  than  a  written  attestation  of  their  gratitude. 
In  all  countries,  valor  ranks  high  in  the  list  of  virtues  ;  in  no 
country  does  it  so  absolve  from  vices  as  it  does  in  France. 

But  as  yet  Victor  de  Mauleon's  vindication  was  only  known 
by  a  few,  and  those  belonging  to  the  gayer  circles  of  life. 
How  he  might  be  judged  by  the  sober  middle  class,  which 
constitutes  the  most  important  section  of  public  opinion  to  a 
candidate  for  public  trusts  and  distinctions,  was  another  ques- 
tion. 

The  Duchesse  stood  at  the  door  to  receive  her  visitors. 
Duplessis  was  seated  near  the  entrance,  by  the  side  of  a  dis- 
tinguished member  of  the  Imperial  Government,  with  whom 
he  was  carrying  on  a  whispered  conversation.  The  eye  of  the 
financier,  however,  turned  towards  the  doorway  as  Alain  and 


THE  PARISIANS.  263 

Enguerrand  entered,  and  passing  over  their  familiar  faces, 
fixed  itself  attentively  on  that  of  a  much  older  man  whom 
Enguerrand  was  presenting  to  the  Duchesse,  and  in  whom  Du- 
plessis  rightly  divined  the  Vicomte  de  Mauleon.  Certainly  if 
no  one  could  have  recognized  M.  Lebeau  in  the  stately  per- 
sonage who  had  visited  Louvier,  still  less  could  one  who  had 
heard  of  the  wild  feats  of  the  roi  des  viveurs  in  his  youth  rec- 
oncile belief  in  such  tales  with  the  quiet  modesty  of  mien 
which  distinguished  the  cavalier  now  replying,  with  bended 
head  and  subdued  accents,  to  the  courteous  welcome  of  the 
brilliant  hostess.  But  for  such  difference  in  attributes  be- 
tween the  past  and  the  present  De  Mauleon,  Duplessis  had 
been  prepared  by  the  conversation  at  the  Maison  Doree.  And 
now,  as  the  Vicomte,  yielding  his  place  by  the  Duchesse  to 
some  new-comer,  glided  on,  and,  leaning  against  a  column, 
contemplated  the  gay  scene  before  him  with  that  expression  of 
countenance,  half  sarcastic,  half  mournful,  with  which  men  re- 
gard, after  long  estrangement,  the  scenes  of  departed  joys, 
Duplessis  felt  that  no  change  in  that  man  had  impaired  the 
force  of  character  which  had  made  him  the  hero  of  reckless 
coevals.  Though  wearing  no  beard,  not  even  a  moustache, 
there  was  something  emphatically  masculine  in  the  contour 
of  the  close-shaven  cheek  and  resolute  jaw,  in  a  forehead 
broad  at  the  temples,  and  protuberant  in  those  organs  over  the 
eyebrows  which  are  said  to  be  significant  of  quick  perception 
and  ready  action  ;  in  the  lips,  when  in  repose  compressed, 
perhaps  somewhat  stern  in  their  expression, but  pliant  and  mobile 
when  speaking,  and  wonderfully  fascinating  when  they  smiled. 
Altogether,  about  this  Victor  de  Mauleon  there  was  a  name- 
less distinction,  apart  from  that  of  conventional  elegance. 
You  would  have  said  :  "  That  is  a  man  of  some  marked  in- 
dividuality, an  eminence  of  some  kind  in  himself."  You 
would  not  be  surprised  to  hear  that  he  was  a  party-leader,  a 
skilled  diplomatist,  a  daring  soldier,  an  adventurous  traveller  ; 
but  you  would  not  guess  him  to  be  a  student,  an  author,  an 
artist. 

While  Duplessis  thus  observed  the  Vicomte  de  Mauleon,  all 
the  while  seeming  to  lend  an  attentive  ear  to  the  whispered 
voice  of  the  Minister  by  his  side,  Alain  passed  on  into  the 
ballroom.  He  was  fresh  enough  to  feel  the  exhilaration  of  the 
dance.  Enguerrand  (who  had  survived  that  excitement,  and 
who  habitually  deserted  any  assembly  at  an  early  hour  for  the 
cigar  and  whist  of  his  club)  had  made  his  way  to  De  Mauleon, 
and  there  stationed  himself.  The  lion  of  one  generation  has 


264  THE  PARISIANS, 

always  a  mixed  feeling  of  curiosity  and  respect  for  the  lion  of 
a  generation  before  him,  and  the  young  Vandemar  had  con- 
ceived a  strong  and  almost  an  affectionate  interest  in  this  dis- 
crowned king  of  that  realm  in  fashion  which,  once  lost,  is 
never  to  be  regained  ;  for  it  is  only  Youth  that  can  hold  its 
sceptre  and  command  its  subjects. 

"  In  this  crowd,  Vicomte,"  said  Enguerrand,  "there  must  be 
many  old  acquaintances  of  yours  ?" 

"  Perhaps  so,  but  as  yet  I  have  only  seen  new  faces." 

As  he  thus  spoke,  a  middle-aged  man,  decorated  with  the 
grand  cross  of  the  Legion  and  half  a  dozen  foreign  orders, 
lending  his  arm  to  a  lady  of  the  same  age  radiant  in  diamonds, 
passed  by  towards  the  ball-room,  and  in  some  sudden  swerve  of 
his  person,  occasioned  by  a  pause  of  his  companion  to  adjust  her 
train,  he  accidentally  brushed  against  De  Mauleon,  whom  he 
had  not  before  noticed.  Turning  round  to  apologize  for  his 
awkwardness,  he  encountered  the  full  gaze  of  the  Vicomte, 
started,  changed  countenance,  and  hurried  on  his  companion. 

"  Do  you  not  recognize  his  Excellency  ?"  said  Enguerrand, 
smiling.  "  His  cannot  be  a  new  face  to  you." 

"  Is  it  the  Baron  de  Lacy  ?  "  asked  De  Maule"on. 

"  The  Baron  de  Lacy,  now  Count  d'Epinay,  ambassador  at 
the  Court  of ,  and,  if  report  speak  true,  likely  soon  to  ex- 
change that  post  for  the  portefeuille  of  Minister." 

"  He  has  got  on  in  life  since  I  saw  him  last,  the  little  Baron. 
He  was  then  my  devoted  imitator,  and  I  was  not  proud  of  the 
imitation." 

"  He  has  got  on  by  always  clinging  to  the  skirts  of  some  one 
stronger  than  himself  ;  to  yours,  I  dare  say,  when,  being  a  par- 
venu despite  his  usurped  title  of  Baron,  he  aspired  to  the 
entree  into  clubs  and  salons.  The  entree  thus  obtained,  the 
rest  followed  easily  :  he  became  a  millionnaire  through  a  wife's 
dot,  and  an  ambassador  through  the  wife's  lover,  who  is  a 
power  in  the  State." 

"  But  he  must  have  substance  in  himself.  Empty  bags  can- 
not be  made  to  stand  upright.  Ah,  unless  I  mistake,  I  see 
some  one  I  know  better  !  Yon  pale,  thin  man,  also  with  the 
grand  cross — surely  that  is  Alfred  Hennequin.  Is  he  too  a 
decorated  Imperialist  ?  I  left  him  a  socialistic  republican." 

"  But,  I  presume,  even  then  an  eloquent  avocctt.  He  got 
into  the  Chamber,  spoke  well,  defended  the  coup-d'ttat.  He 

has  just  been  made  Prtfet  of  the  great  department  of ,  a 

popular  appointment.  He  bears  a  high  character.  Pray  re- 
new your  acquaintance  with  him  ;  he  is  coming  this  way." 


THE   PARISIANS.  265 

"  Will  so  grave  a  dignitary  renew  acquaintance  with  me  ?  I 
doubt  it." 

But  as  De  Mauleon  said  this,  he  moved  from  the  column, 
and  advanced  towards  the  Pre'fet.  Enguerrand  followed  him, 
and  saw  the  Vicomte  extend  his  hand  to  his  old  acquaintance. 
The  Pre'fet  stared,  and  said,  with  frigid  courtesy  :  "  Pardon 
me — some  mistake." 

"  Allow  me,  M.  Hennequin,"  said  Enguerrand,  interposing, 
and  wishing  good-naturedly  to  save  De  Mauleon  the  awkward- 
ness of  introducing  himself  ;  "  Allow  me  to  reintroduce  you  to 
my  kinsman,  whom  the  lapse  of  years  may  well  excuse  you  for 
forgetting,  the  Vicomte  de  Mauleon." 

Still  the  Pre'fet  did  not  accept  the  hand.  He  bowed  with 
formal  ceremony,  said,  "  I  was  not  aware  that  M.  le  Vicomte 
had  returned  to  Paris,"  and,  moving  to  the  doorway,  made  his 
salutation  to  the  hostess  and  disappeared. 

"  The  insolent  !  "  muttered  Enguerrand. 

"  Hush  !"  said  De  Mauleon  quietly,  "  I  can  fight  no  more 
duels — especially  with  a  Pre'fet.  But  I  own  I  am  weak  enough 
to  feel  hurt  at  such  a  reception  from  Hennequin,  for  he  owed 
me  some  obligations — small,  perhaps,  but  still  they  were  such 
as  might  have  made  me  select  him,  rather  than  Louvier,  as  the 
vindicator  of  my  name,  had  I  known  him  to  be  so  high  placed. 
But  a  man  who  has  raised  himself  into  an  authority  may  well 
be  excused  for  forgetting  a  friend  whose  character  needs  de- 
fence. I  forgive  him." 

There  was  something  pathetic  in  the  Vicomte's  tone  which 
touched  Enguerrand's  warm  if  light  heart.  But  De  Mauleon 
did  not  allow  him  time  to  answer.  He  went  on  quickly  through 
an  opening  in  the  gay  crowd,  which  immediately  closed  behind 
him,  and  Enguerrand  saw  him  no  more  that  evening. 

Duplessis  ere  this  had  quitted  his  seat  by  the  Minister,  drawn 
thence  by  a  young  and  very  pretty  girl  resigned  to  his  charge 
by  a  cavalier  with  whom  she  had  been  dancing.  She  was  the 
only  daughter  of  Duplessis,  and  he  valued  her  even  more  than 
the  millions  he  had  made  at  the  Bourse.  "  The  Princess,"  she 
said,  "  has  been  swept  off  in  the  train  of  some  German  Royalty  ; 
so,  petit plre,  I  must  impose  myself  on  thee." 

The  Princess,  a  Russian  of  high  rank,  was  the  chaperon  that 
evening  of  Mademoiselle  Valerie  Duplessis. 

"And  I  suppose  I  must  take  thee  back  into  the  ball-room," 
said  the  financier,  smiling  proudly,  "and  find  thee  partners." 

'  I  don't  want  your  aid  for  that,  Monsieur ;  except  this 
quadrille,  my  list  is  pretty  well  filled  up." 


266  THE    PARISIANS. 

"  And  I  hope  the  partners  will  be  pleasant.  Let  me  know 
who  they  are,"  he  whispered,  as  they  threaded  their  way  into 
the  ball-room. 

The  girl  glanced  at  her  tablet. 

"  Well,  the  first  on  the  list  is  milord  somebody,  with  an  un- 
pronounceable English  «ame." 

"  Beau  cavalier  ?" 

"  No  ;  ugly,  old  too — thirty  at  least." 

Duplessis  felt  relieved.  He  did  not  wish  his  daughter  to 
fall  in  love  with  an  Englishman. 

"And  the  next?" 

"  The  next,"  she  said  hesitatingly,  and  he  observed  that  a 
soft  blush  accompanied  the  hesitation. 

"  Yes,  the  next.     Not  English,  too  ?" 

"  Oh,  no,  the  Marquis  de  Rochebrianf." 

"  Ah,  who  presented  him  to  thee?  " 

"  Thy  friend,  petit  ptre,  M.  de  Breze." 

Duplessis  again  glanced  at  his  daughter's  face  ;  it  was  bent 
over  her  bouquet. 

"  Is  he  ugly  also  ?  " 

"  Ugly  !  "  exclaimed  the  girl  indignantly  ;  "  Why,  he  is — " 
she  checked  herself  and  turned  away  her  head. 

Duplessis  became  thoughtful.  He  was  glad  that  he  had 
accompanied  his  child  into  the  ball-room  ;  he  would  stay  there, 
and  keep  watch  on  her  and  Rochebriant  also. 

Up  to  that  moment  he  had  felt  a  dislike  to  Rochebriant. 
That  young  noble's  too  obvious  pride  of  race  had  nettled  him, 
not  the  less  that  the  financier  himself  was  vain  of  his  ancestry. 
Perhaps -he  stil)  disliked  Alain,  but  the  dislike  was  now  accom- 
panied with  a  certain,  not  hostile,  interest ;  and  if  he  became 
connected  with  the  race,  the  pride  in  it  might  grow  contagious. 

They  had  not  been  long  in  the  ball-room  before  Alain  came 
up  to  claim  his  promised  partner.  In  saluting  Duplessis,  his 
manner  was  the  same  as  usual — not  more  cordial,  not  less  cere- 
moniously distant.  A  man  so  able  as  the  financier  cannot  be 
without  quick  knowledge  of  the  human  heart. 

"  If  disposed  to  fall  in  love  with  Valerie,"  thought  Duplessis, 
"he  would  hive  taken  more  pains  to  please  her  father.  Well, 
thank  Heaven,  there  are  better  matches  to  be  found  for  her  than 
a  noble  without  fortune,  and  a  Legitimist  without  career." 

In  fact,  Alain  felt  no  more  for  Valerie  than  for  any  other 
pretty  girl  in  the  room.  In  talking  with  the  Vicomte  de  Brez£ 
in  the  intervals  of  the  dance,  he  had  made  some  passing  remark 
on  her  beauty  ;  De  Breze  had  said  ;  "  Yes,  she  is  charming  ; 


THE    PARISIANS.  267 

I  will  present  you,"  and  hastened  to  do  so  before  Rochebriant 
even  learned  her  name.  So  introduced,  he  could  but  invite 
her  to  give  him  her  first  disengaged  dance,  and  when  that  was 
fixed,  he  had  retired,  without  entering  into  conversation. 

Now,  as  they  took  their  places  in  the  quadrille,  he  felt  that 
effort  of  speech  had  become  a  duty,  if  not  a  pleasure ;  and,  of 
course,  he  began  with  the  first  commonplace  which  presented 
itself  to  his  mind. 

"  Do  you  not  think  it  a  very  pleasant  ball,  Mademoiselle  ?" 

"  Yes,"  dropped,  in  almost  inaudible  reply,  from  Valerie's 
rosy  lips. 

"And  not  overcrowded,  as  most  balls  are  ?" 

Valerie's  lips  again  moved,  but  this  time  quite  inaudibly.. 

The  obligations  of  the  figure  now  caused  a  pause.  Alain 
racked  his  brains,  and  began  : 

"  They  tell  me  the  last  season  was  more  than  usually  gay  ; 
of  that  I  cannot  judge,  for  it  was  well-nigh  over  when  I  came 
to  Paris  for  the  first  time." 

Valerie  looked  up  with  a  more  animated  expression  than  her 
childlike  face  had  yet  shown,  and  said,  this  time  distinctly  : 
"  This  is  my  first  ball,  Monsieur  le  Marquis." 

"  One  has  only  to  look  at  Mademoiselle  to  divine  that  fact," 
replied  Alain  gallantly. 

Again  the  conversation  was  interrupted  by  the  dance,  but  the 
ice  between  the  two  was  now  broken.  And  when  the  quadrille 
was  concluded,  and  Rochebriant  led  the  fair  Valerie  back  to 
her  father's  side,  she  felt  as  if  she  had  been  listening  to  the 
music  of  the  spheres,  and  that  the  music  had  now  suddenly 
stopped.  Alain,  alas  for  her,  was  under  no  such  pleasing  illu- 
sion. Her  talk  had  seemed  him  artless  indeed,  but  very  in- 
sipid, compared  with  the  brilliant  conversation  of  the  wedded 
Parisiennes  with  whom  he  more  habitually  danced  ;  and  it  was 
with  rather  a  sensation  of  relief  that  he  made  his  parting  bow, 
und  receded  into  the  crowd  of  bystanders. 

Meanwhile  De  Mauleon  had  quitted  the  assemblage,  walking 
slowly  through  the  deserted  streets  towards  his  apartment. 
The  civilities  he  had  met  at  Louvier's  dinner-party,  and  the 
marked  distinction  paid  to  him  by  kinsmen  of  rank  and  position 
BO  unequivocal  as  Alain  and  Enguerrand,  had  softened  his 
mood  and  cheered  his  spirits.  He  had  begun  to  question  him- 
self whether  a  fair  opening  to  his  political  ambition  was  really 
forbidden  to  him  under  the  existent  order  of  things,  whether  it 
necessitated  the  employment  of  such  dangerous  tools  as  those 
\Q  which  anger  and  despair  had  reconciled  his  intellect.  But 


268  THE    PARISIANS. 

the  pointed  way  in  which  he  had  been  shunned  or  slighted  by 
the  two  men  who  belonged  to  political  life — to  men  who  in 
youth  had  looked  up  to  himself,  and  whose  dazzling  career  of 
honors  was  identified  with  the  Imperial  system — reanimated 
his  fiercer  passions  and  his  more  perilous  designs.  The  frigid 
accost  of  Hennequin  more  especially  galled  him  ;  it  wounded 
not  only  his  pride  but  his  heart ;  it  had  the  venom  of  ingrati- 
tude and  it  is  the  peculiar  privilege  of  ingratitude  to  wound 
hearts  that  have  learned  to  harden  themselves  to  the  hate 
or  contempt  of  men  to  whom  no  services  have  been  ren- 
dered. In  some  private  affair  concerning  his  property,  De 
Mauleon  had  had  occasion  to  consult  Hennequin,  then  a  rising 
young  avocat.  Out  of  that  consultation  a  friendship  had  sprung 
up,  despite  the  differing  habits  and  social  grades  of  the  two 
men.  One  day,  calling  on  Hennequin,  he  found  him  in  a  state 
of  great  nervous  excitement.  The  arocal  had  received  a  pub- 
lic insult  in  the  salon  of  a  noble,  to  whom  De  Mauleon  had  in- 
troduced him,  from  a  man  who  pretended  to  the  hand  of  a 
young  lady  to  whom  Hennequin  was  attached,  and  indeed  al- 
most affianced.  The  man  was  a  notorious  spadassin — a  duel- 
list little  less  renowned  for  skill  in  all  weapons  than  De  Mau- 
leon himself.  The  affair  had  been  such  that  Hennequin's 
friends  assured  him  he  had  no  choice  but  to  challenge  this 
bravo.  Hennequin,  brave  enough  at  the  bar,  was  no  hero  be- 
fore sword-point  or  pistol.  He  was  utterly  ignorant  of  the  use 
of  either  weapon  ;  his  death  in  the  encounter  with  an  antago- 
nist so  formidable  seemed  to  him  certain,  and  life  was  so  pre- 
cious ;  an  honorable  and  distinguished  career  opening  before 
him,  marriage  with  the  woman  he  loved:  still  he  had  the 
Frenchman's  point  of  honor.  He  had  been  told  that  he  must 
fight ;  well,  then,  he  must.  He  asked  De  Mauleon  to  be  one 
of  his  seconds,  and  in  asking  him,  sank  in  his  chair,  covered 
his  face  with  his  hands,  and  burst  into  tears. 

"  Wait  till  to-morrow,"  said  De  Mauleon  ;  "  take  no  step  till 
then.  Meanwhile,  you  are  in  my  hands,  and  I  answer  for  your 
honor." 

On  leaving  Hennequin,  Victor  sought  the  spadassin  at  the 
club  of  which  they  were  both  members,  and  contrived  without 
reference  to  Hennequin  to  pick  a  quarrel  with  him.  A  chal- 
lenge ensued  ;  a  duel  with  swords  took  place  the  next  morning. 
De  Mauleon  disarmed  and  wounded  his  antagonist,  not  gravely, 
but  sufficiently  to  terminate  the  encounter.  He  assisted  to 
convey  the  wounded  man  to  his  apartment,  and  planted  hirn- 
§ejf  by  his  bedside,  as  if  he  were  a  friend, 


THE   PARISIANS.  269 

"Why  on  eaith  did  you  fasten  a  quarrel  on  me  ? "  asked  the 
spadassin  ;  "  And  why,  having  done  so,  did  you  spare  my  life  ; 
for  your  sword  was  at  my  heart  when  you  shifted  its  point,  and 
pierced  my  shoulder?" 

"  I  will  tell  you,  and  in  so  doing,  beg  you  to  accept  my 
friendship  hereafter,  on  one  condition.  In  the  course  of  the 
day,  write  or  dictate  a  few  civil  words  of  apology  to  M.  Hen- 
neqtiin.  Ma  foi  !  every  one  will  praise  you  for  a  generosity  so 
becoming  in  a  man  who  has  given  such  proofs  of  courage  and 
skill,  to  an  avocat  who  has  never  handled  a  sword  nor  fired  a 
pistol." 

That  same  day  De  Mauleon  remitted  to  Hennequin  an  apol- 
ogy for  heated  words  freely  retracted,  which  satisfied  all 
his  friends.  For  the  service  thus  rendered  by  De  Mauleon, 
Hennequin  declared  himself  everlastingly  indebted.  In  fact, 
he  entirely  owed  to  that  friend  his  life,  his  marriage,  his  honor, 
his  career. 

"And  now,"  thought  De  Mauleon,  "Now,  when  he  could  so 
easily  requite  me — now  he  will  not  even  take  my  hand.  Is 
human  nature  itself  at  war  with  me  ? " 

CHAPTER   III. 

NOTHING  could  be  simpler  than  the  apartment  of  the  Vi- 
comte  de  Mauleon,  in  the  second  story  of  a  quiet,  old-fashioned 
street.  •  It  had  been  furnished  at  small  cost  out  of  his  savings. 
Yet,  on  the  whole,  it  evinced  the  good  taste  of  a  man  who  had 
once  been  among  the  exquisites  of  the  polite  world. 

You  felt  that  you  were  in  the  apartment  of  a  gentleman,  and 
a  gentleman  of  somewhat  severe  tastes,  and  of  sober,  matured 
years.  He  was  sitting  the  next  morning  in  the  room  which  he 
used  as  a  private  study.  Along  the  walls  were  arranged  dwarf 
bookcases,  as  yet  occupied  by  few  books,  most  of  them  books 
of  reference,  others  cheap  editions  of  the  French  classics  in 
prose,  no  poets,  no  romance-writers,  with  a  few  Latin  authors 
also  in  prose — Cicero,  Sallust,  Tacitus.  He  was  engaged  at 
his  desk  writing — a  book  with  its  leaves  open  before  him,  "  Paul 
Louis  Courier,"  that  model  of  political  irony  and  masculine 
style  of  composition.  There  was  a  ring  at  his  door-bell.  The 
Vicomte  kept  no  servant.  He  rose  and  answered  the  sum- 
mons. He  recoiled  a  few  paces  on  recognizing  his  visitor  in 
M.  Hennequin. 

The  Pr/fet  this  time  did  not  withdraw  his  hand;  he  ex- 
tended it,  but  it  was  with  a  certain  awkwardness  and  timidity. 


270  THE  PARISIANS. 

"I  thought  it  my  duty  to  call  on  you,  Vicomte,  thus  early, 
having  already  seen  M.  Enguerrand  de  Vandemar.  He 
has  shown  me  the  copies  of  the  pieces  which  were  inspected 
by  your  distinguished  kinsmen,  and  which  completely  clear  you 
of  the  charge  that,  grant  me  your  pardon  when  I  say,  seemed 
to  me  still  to  remain  unanswered  when  I  had  the  honor  to 
meet  you  last  night." 

"  It  appears  to  me,  M.  Hennequin,  that  you,  as  an  avocat  so 
eminent,  might  have  convinced  yourself  very  readily  of  that 
fact." 

"M.  le  Vicomte,  I  was  in  Switzerland  with  my  wife  at  the 
time  of  the  unfortunate  affair  in  which  you  were  involved." 

"But  when  you  returned  to  Paris,  you  might  perhaps  have 
deigned  to  make  inquiries  so  affecting  the  honor  of  one  you 
had  called  a  friend,  and  for  whom  you  had  professed" — I)e 
Mauleon  paused;  he  disdained  to  add — "an  eternal  grati- 
tude." 

Hennequin  colored  slightly,  but  replied  with  self-possession, 

"I  certainly  did  inquire.  J  did  hear  that  the  charge  against 
you  with  regard  to  the  abstraction  of  the  jewels  was  withdrawn  ; 
that  you  were  therefore  acquitted  by  law  ;  but  I  heard  also 
that  society  did  not  acquit  you,  and  that,  finding  this,  you  had 
quitted  France.  Pardon  me  again,  no  one  would  listen  to  me 
when  I  attempted  to  speak  on  your  behalf.  But  now  that  so 
many  years  have  elapsed  ;  that  the  story  is  imperfectly  remem- 
bered ;  that  relations  so  high-placed  receive  you  so  cordially — 
now  I  rejoice  to  think  that  you  will  have  no  difficulty  in  re- 
gaining a  social  position  never  really  lost,  but  for  a  time  re- 
signed." 

''I  am  duly  sensible  of  the  friendly  joy  you  express.  I  was 
reading  the  other  day  in  a  lively  author  some  pleasant  remarks 
on  the  effects  of  medisance  or  calumny  upon  our  impressionable 
Parisian  public.  '  If,'  says  the  writer,  'I  found  myself  accused 
of  having  put  the  two  towers  of  Notre  Dame  into  my  waistcoat- 
pocket,  I  should  not  dream  of  defending  myself  ;  I  should  take 
to  flight.  And,'  adds  the  writer,  'if  my  best  friend  were  under 
the  same  accusation,  I  should  be  so  afraid  of  being  considered 
his  accomplice  that  I  should  put  my  best  friend  outside  the 
door.'  Perhaps,  M.  Hennequin,  I  was  seized  with  the  first  alarm. 
*Vhy  should  1  blame  you  if  seized  with  the  second  ?  Happily 
tnrs  good  city  of  Paris  has  its  reactions.  And  you  can  now 
offer  me  your  hand.  Paris  has  by  this  time  discovered  that 
the  two  towers  of  Notre  Dame  are  not  in  my  pocket/' 

There  was  a  pause.     De  Mauleon  had  resettled  himself  at 


THE   PARISIANS.  271 

his  desk,  bending  over  his  papers,  and  his  manner  seemed  to 
imply  that  he  considered  the  conversation  at  an  end. 

But  a  pang  of  shame,  of  remorse,  of  tender  remembrance, 
shot  across  the  heart  of  the  decorous,  worldly,  self-seeking 
man,  who  owed  all  that  he  now  was  to  the  ci-devant  vaurien  be- 
fore him.  Again  he  stretched  forth  his  hand,  and  this  time 
grasped  De  Mauleon's  warmly.  "  Forgive  me,"  he  said,  feel- 
ingly and  hoarsely  ;  "  Forgive  me.  I  was  to  blame.  By  char- 
acter, and  perhaps  by  the  necessities  of  my  career,  I  am  over- 
timid  to  public  opinion — public  scandal — forgive  me.  Say  if 
in  anything  now  I  can  requite,  though  but  slightly,  the  service 
1  owe  you." 

De  Mauleon  looked  steadily  at  the  Prefet,  and  said  slowly  : 
"  Would  you  serve  me  in  turn  ?  Are  you  sincere  ?" 

The  Prtfet  hesitated  a  moment,  then  answered  firmly,  "Yes." 

"  Well,  then,  what  I  ask  of  you  is  a  frank  opinion — not  as 
lawyer,  not  as  Prefet,  but  as  a  man  who  knows  the  present 
state  of  French  society.  Give  that  opinion  without  respect  to 
my  feelings  one  way  or  other.  Let  it  emanate  solely  from  your 
practised  judgment." 

"Be  it  so,"  said  Hennequin,  wondering  what  was  to  come. 

De  Mauleon  resumed  : 

"  As  you  may  remember,  during  my  former  career  I  had  no 
political  ambition.  I  did  not  meddle  with  politics.  In  the 
troubled  times  that  immediately  succeeded  the  fall  of  Louis 
Philippe  I  was  but  an  epicurean  looker-on.  Grant  that,  so  far 
as  admission  to  the  salons  are  concerned,  I  shall  encounter  no 
difficulty  in  regaining  position.  But  as  regaids  the  Chamber, 
public  life,  a  political  career — can  I  have  my  fair  opening  under 
the  Empire  ?  You  pause.  Answer  as  you  have  promised, 
frankly." 

"  The  difficulties  in  the  way  of  a  political  career  wolild  be 
very  great." 

"  Insuperable." 

"  I  fear  so.  Of  course,  in  my  capacity  of  Pr/fet,  I  have  no 
small  influence  in  my  department  in  support  of  a  government 
candidate.  But  I  do  not  think  that  the  Imperial  Government 
could,  at  this  time  especially,  in  which  it  must  be  very  cautious 
in  selecting  its  candidates,  be  induced  to  recommend  you. 
The  affair  of  the  jewels  would  be  raked  up  ;  your  vindication 
disputed,  denied  ;  the  fact  that  for  so  many  years  you  have 
acquiesced  in  that  charge  without  taking  steps  to  refute  it  ; 
your  antecedents,  even  apart  from  that  charge — your  present 
want  of  property  (M.  Enguerrand  tells  me  your  income  is  but 


272  THE    PARISIANS.  ^ 

moderate);  the  absence  of  all  previous  repute  in  public  life. 
No  ;  relinquish  the  idea  of  political  contest ;  it  would  expose 
you  to  inevitable  mortifications,  to  a  failure  that  would  even 
jeopardize  the  admission  to  the  salons  which  you  are  now  gain- 
ing. You  could  not  be  a  government  candidate." 

"  Granted.  I  may  have  no  desire  to  be  one  ;  but  an  oppo- 
sition candidate,  one  of  the  Liberal  .party?" 

"As  an  Imperialist,"  said  Hennequin,  smiling  gravely,  "and 
holding  the  office  I  do,  it  would  not  become  me  to  encourage 
a  candidate  against  the  Emperor's  government.  But  speaking 
with  the  frankness  you  solicit,  I  should  say  that  your  chances 
there  are  infinitely  worse.  The,  opposition  are  in  a  pitiful  mi- 
nority ;  the  most  eminent  of  the  Liberals  can  scarcely  gain  seats 
for  themselves  ;  great  local  popularity  or  property,  high  estab- 
lished repute  for  established  patriotism,  or  proved  talents  of 
oratory  and  statesmanship,  are  essential  qualifications  for  a  seat 
in  the  opposition,  and  even  these  do  not  suffice  for  a  third  of 
the  persons  who  possess  them.  Be  again  what  you  were  before, 
the  hero  of  salons,  remote  from  the  turbulent  vulgarity  of  poli- 
tics." 

"  I  am  answered.  Thank  you  once  more.  The  service  I 
rendered  you  once  is  requited  now." 

"  No,  indeed — no  ;  but  will  you  dine  with  me  quietly  to-day, 
and  allow  me  to  present  to  you  my  wife  and  two  children,  born 
since  we  parted  ?  I  say  to-day,  for  to-morrow  I  return  to  my 
Prefecture." 

"  I  am  infinitely  obliged  by  your  invitation,  but  to-day  I  dine 
with  the  Count  de  Beauvilliers  to  meet  some  of  the  Corps  Dip- 
lomatique. I  must  make  good  my  place  in  the  salons,  since 
you  so  clearly  show  me  that  I  have  no  chance  of  one  in  the 
Legislature — unless — " 

"  Unfess  what  ?" 

"  Unless  there  happen  one  of  those  revolutions  in  which  the 
scum  comes  uppermost." 

"  No  fear  of  that.  The  subterranean  barracks  and  railway 
have  ended  forever  the  rise  of  the  scum — the  reign  of  \\\Q  ca- 
naille and  its  barricades." 

"  Adieu,  my  dear  Hennequin.  My  respectful  hommages  a 
Madame" 

After  that  day,  the  writing  of  Pierre  Firmin  in  Le  Sens  Com- 
mun,  though  still  keeping  within  the  pale  of  the  law,  became 
more  decidedly  hostile  to  the  Imperial  system,  still  without 
committing  their  author  to  any  definite  programme  of  the  sort 
of  government  that  should  succeed  it. 


THE  PARISIANS. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

4 

THE  weeks  glided  on.  Tsaura's  MS.  had  passed  into  print  : 
it  came  out  in  the  French  fashion  of  feuilletons — a  small  detach- 
ment at  a  time.  A  previous  flourish  of  trumpets  by  Savarin 
and  the  clique  at  his  command  insured  it  attention,  if  not  from 
the  general  public,  at  least  from  critical  and  literary  coteries. 
Before  the  fourth  instalment  appeared  it  had  outgrown  the 
patronage  of  the  coteries  ;  it  seized  hold  of  the  public.  It  was 
not  in  the  last  school  of  fashion  ;  incidents  were  not  crowded 
and  violent,  they  were  few  and  simple,  rather  appertaining  to  an 
elder  school,  in  which  poetry  of  sentiment  and  grace  of  diction 
prevailed.  That  very  resemblance  to  old  favorites  gave  it  the 
attraction  of  novelty.  In  a  word,  it  excited  a  pleased  admira- 
tion, and  great  curiosity  was  felt  as  to  the  authorship.  When  it 
oozed  out  that  it  was  by  the  young  lady  whose  future  success  in  the 
musical  world  had  been  so  sanguinely  predicted  by  all  who  had 
heard  her  sing,  the  interest  wonderfully  increased.  Petitions 
to  be  introduced  to  her  acquaintance  were  showered  upon 
Savarin  :  before  she  scarcely  realized  her  dawning  fame  she 
was  drawn  from  her  quiet  home,  and  retired  habits  ;  she 
was  fetie  and  courted  in  the  literary  circle  of  which  Savarin 
was  a  chief.  That  circle  touched,  on  one  side,  Bohemia  ;  on 
the  other,  that  realm  of  politer  fashion  which,  in  every  intel- 
lectual metropolis,  but  especially  in  Paris,  seeks  to  gain  bor- 
rowed light  from  luminaries  in  art  and  letters.  But  the  very 
admiration  she  obtained  somewhat  depressed,  somewhat  troub- 
led, her  ;  after  all,  it  did  not  differ  from  that  which  was  at  her 
command  as  a  singer. 

On  the  one  hand,  she  shrank  instinctively  from  the 
caresses  of  female  authors  and  the  familiar  greetings  of  male 
authors,  who  frankly  lived  in  philosophical  disdain  of  the  con- 
ventions respected  by  sober,  decorous  mortals.  On  the  other 
hand,  in  the  civilities  of  those  who,  while  they  courted  a  rising 
celebrity,  still  held  their  habitual  existence  apart  from  the  ar- 
tistic world,  there  was  a  certain  air  of  condescension,  of  patronage 
towards  the  young  stranger  with  no  other  protector  but  Sig- 
nora  Venosta,  the  ci-devant  public  singer,  and  who  had  made  her 
debnt  in  a  journal  edited  by  M.  Gustave  Rameau,  which,  how- 
ever disguised  by  exaggerated  terms  of  praise,  wounded  her 
pride  of  woman  in  flattering  her  vanity  as  author.  Among 
this  latter  set  were  wealthy,  high-born  men,  who  addressed  her 
as  woman — as  woman  beautiful  and  young — with  words  of 


PARISIANS. 

gallantry  that  implied  love,  but  certainly  no  thought  of  mar- 
riage :  many  of  the  most  ardent  were  indeed  married  already. 
But  once  launched  into  the  thick  of  Parisian  hospitalities,  it 
was  difficult  to  draw  back.  The  Venosta  wept  at  the  thought 
of  missing  some  lively  soiree,  and  Savarin  laughed  at  her  shrink- 
ing fastidiousness  as  that  of  a  child's  ignorance  of  the  world. 
But  still  she  had  her  mornings  to  herself  ;  and  in  those  morn- 
ings, devoted  to  the  continuance  of  her  work  (for  the  com- 
mencement was  in  print  before  a  third  was  completed),  she 
forgot  the  commonplace  world  that  received  her  in  the  even- 
ings. Insensibly  to  herself  the  tone  of  this  work  had  changed 
as  it  proceeded.  It  had  begun  seriously  indeed,  but  in  the 
seriousness  there  was  a  certain  latent  joy.  It  might  be  the  joy 
of  having  found  vent  of  utterance  ;  it  might  be  rather  a  joy 
still  more  latent,  inspired  by  the  remembrance  of  Graham's 
words  and  looks,  and  by  the  thought  that  she  had  renounced 
all  idea  of  the  professional  career  which  he  had  evidently  dis- 
approved. Life  then  seemed  to  her  a  bright  possession.  We 
have  seen  that  she  had  begun  her  roman  without  planning  how 
it  should  end.  She  had,  however,  then  meant  it  to  end,  some- 
how or  other,  happily.  Now  the  lustre  had  gone  from  life  ; 
the  tone  of  the  work  was  saddened  ;  it  foreboded  a  tragic  close. 
But  for  the  general  reader  it  became,  with  every  chapter,  still 
more  interesting;  the  poor  child  had  a  singularly  musical  gift 
of  style — a  music  which  lent  itself  naturally  to  pathos.  Every 
very  young  writer  knows  how  his  work,  if  one  of  feeling,  will 
color  itself  from  the  views  of  some  truth  in  his  innermost  self; 
and  in  proportion  as  it  does  so,  how  his  absorption  in  the  work 
increases,  till  it  becomes  part  and  parcel  of  his  own  mind  and 
heart.  The  presence  of  a  hidden  sorrow  may  change  the  fate 
of  the  beings  he  has,  created,  and  guide  to  the  grave  those 
whom,  in  a  happier  vein,  he  would  have  united  at  the  altar. 
It  is  not  till  a  later  stage  of  experience  and  art  that  the  writer 
escapes  from  the  influence  of  his  individual  personality,  and 
lives  in  existences  that  take  no  colorings  from  his  own.  Genius 
usually  must  pass  through  the  subjective  process  before  it  gains 
the  objective.  Even  a  Shakspeare  represents  himself  in  the 
Sonnets  before  no  trace  of  himself  is  visible  in  a  Falstaff  or  a 
Lear. 

No  news  of  the  Englishman— not  a  word.  Isaura  could  not 
but  feel  that  in  his  words,  his  looks,  that  day  in  her  own  gar- 
den, and  those  yet  happier  days  at  Enghien,  there  had  been 
more  than  friendship  :  there  had  been  love — love  enough  to 
justify  her  own  pride  in  whispering  to  herself,  "  And  I  love 


THE  PARISIANS.  275 

too."  But  then  that  last  parting  !  How  changed  he  was — • 
how  cold  !  She  conjectured  that  jealousy  of  liameau  might, 
in  some  degree,  account  for  the  coldness  when  he  first  entered 
the  room,  but  surely  not  when  he  left ;  surely  not  when  she 
had  overpassed  the  reserve  of  her  sex,  and  implied,  by  signs 
rarely  misconstrued  by  those  who  love,  that  he  had  no  cause 
for  jealousy  of  another.  Yet  he  had  gone  ;  parted  with  her 
pointedly  as  a  friend,  a  mere  friend.  How  foolish  she  had 
been  to  think  this  rich,  ambitious  foreigner  could  ever  have 
meant  to  be  more  !  In  the  occupation  of  her  work  she 
thought  to  banish  his  image  ;  but  in  that  work  the  image  was 
never  absent  ;  there  were  passages  in  which  she  pleadingly 
addressed  it,  and  then  would  cease  abruptly,  stifled  by 
passionate  tears.  Still  she  fancied  that  the  work  would  re- 
unite them  ;  that  in  its  pages  he  would  hear  her  voice  and 
comprehend  her  heart.  And  thus  all  praise  of  the  work  be 
came  very,  very  dear  to  her. 

At  last,  after  many  weeks,  Savarin  heaid  from  Graham. 
The  letter  was  dated  Aix-la-Chapelle,  at  which  the  English  , 
man  said  he  might  yet  be  some  time  detained.  In  the  letter 
Graham  spoke  chiefly  of  the  new  journal  :  in  polite  compli- 
ment of  Savarin's  own  effusions  ;  in  mixed  praise  and  condem- 
nation of  the  political  and  social  articles  signed  Pierre  Fir- 
min — praise  of  their  intellectual  power,  condemnation  of  theii 
moral  cynicism.  "The  writer,"  he  said,  "reminds  me  of  a 
passage  in  which  Montesquieu  compares  the  heathen  philoso- 
phers to  those  plants  which  the  earth  produces  in  places  that 
have  never  seen  the  heavens.  The  soil  of  his  experience  does 
not  grow  a  single  belief;  and  as  no  community  can  exist  with- 
out a  belief  of  some  kind,  so  a  politician  without  belief  can 
but  help  to  destroy  ;  he  cannot  reconstruct.  Such  writers  cor- 
rupt a  society  ;  they  do  not  reform  a  system."  He  closed  his 
letter  with  a  reference  to  Isaura  :  "  Do,  in  your  reply,  my  dear 
Savarin,  tell  me  something  about  your  friends  Signora  Venosta 
and  the  Signorina,  whose  work,  so  far  as  yet  published,  I  have 
read  with  admiring  astonishment  at  the  power  of  a  female 
writer  so  young  to  rival  the  veteran  practitioners  of  fiction  in 
the  creation  of  interest  in  imaginary  characters,  and  in  sen- 
timents which,  if  they  appear  somewhat  over-romantic  and 
exaggerated,  still  touch  very  fine  chords  in  human  nature  not 
awakened  in  our  trite,  everyday  existence.  I  presume  that  the 
beauty  of  the  roman  has  been  duly  appreciated  by  a  public  so 
refined  as  the  Parisian,  and  that  the  name  of  the  author  is  p^"- 
exally  kaown.  No  doubt  she  is  now  much  die  rage  of  the  liter- 


276  THE   fARtSlANS. 

ary  circles,  and  her  career  as  a  writer  may  be  considered  fixed. 
Pray  present  my  congratulations  to  the  Signorina  when  you 
see  her." 

Savarin  had  been  in  receipt  of  this  letter  some  days  before 
he  called  on  Isaura,  and  carelessly  showed  it  to  her.  She  took 
it  to  the  window  to  read,  in  order  to  conceal  the  trembling  of 
her  hands.  In  a  few  minutes  she  returned  it  silently. 

"Those  Englishmen,"  said  Savarin,  "have  not  the  heart  of 
compliment.  I  am  by  no  means  flattered  by  what  he  says  of 
my  trifles,  and  I  dare  say  you  are  still  less  pleased  with  this 
chilly  praise  of  your  charming  tale;  but  the  man  means  to  be  civil." 

"Certainly,"  said  Isaura,  smiling  faintly. 

"Only  think  of  Rameau,"  resumed  Savarin;  "on  the 
strength  of  his  sdtary  in  the  Sens  Commun,  and  on  the  chateaux 
en  Espagne  which  he  constructs  thereon — he  has  already  fur- 
nished an  apartment  in  the  Chaussee  d'Antin,  and  talks  of  set- 
ting up  a  coupe  in  order  to  maintain  the  dignity  of  letters  when 
he  goes  to  dine  with  the  duchesses  who  are  some  day  or  other 
to  invite  him.  Yet  I  admire  his  self-confidence  though  I  laugh 
at  it.  A  man  gets  on  by  a  spring  in  his  own  mechanism,  and 
he  should  always  keep  it  wound  up.  Rameau  will  make  a 
figure.  I  used  to  pity  him.  I  begin  to  respect ;  nothing  suc- 
ceeds like  success.  But  I  see  I  am  spoiling  your  morning. 
Au  revoir,  mon  enfant.'1 

Left  alone,  Isaura  brooded  in  a  sort  of  mournful  wonderment 
over  the  words  referring  to  herself  in  Graham's  letter.  Read 
though  but  once,  she  knew  them  by  heart.  What !  Did  he 
consider  those  characters  she  had  represented  as  wholly  imag- 
inary ?  In  one — the  most  prominent,  the  most  attractive — 
could  he  detect  no  likeness  to  himself  ?  What!  Did  he  con- 
sider so  "over-romantic  and  exaggerated,"  sentiments  which 
couched  appeals  from  her  heart  to  his?  Alas!  in  matters  of 
sentiment  it  is  the  misfortune  of  us  men  that  even  the  most 
refined  of  us  often  grate  upon  some  sentiment  in  a  woman, 
though  she  may  not  be  romantic — not  romantic  at  all,  as  people 
go, — some  sentiment  which  she  thought  must  be  so  obvious,  if 
we  cared  a  straw  about  her,  and  which,  though  we  prize  her 
above  the  Indies,  is,  by  our  dim,  horn-eyed,  masculine  vision, 
undiscernible.  It  may  be  something  in  itself  the  airiest  of 
trifles :  the  anniversary  of  a  day  in  which  the  first  kiss  was 
interchanged,  nay,  of  a  violet  gathered,  a  misunderstanding 
cleared  up";  and  of  that  anniversary  we  remember  no  more 
than  we  do  of  our  bells  and  coral.  But  she — she  remembers 
it ;  it  is  no  bells  and  coral  to  her.  Of  course,  much  is  to  be 


THE    PARISIANS.  277 

said  in  excuse  of  man,  brute  though  he  be.  Consider  the  mul- 
tiplicity of  his  occupations,  the  practical  nature  of  his  cares. 
But  granting  the  validity  of  all  such  excuse,  there  is  in  man  an 
original  obtuseness  of  fibre  as  regards  sentiment  in  comparison 
with  the  delicacy  of  woman's.  It  comes,  perhaps,  from  the 
same  hardness  of  constitution  which  forbids  us  the  luxury  of 
ready  tears.  Thus  it  is  very  difficult  for  the  wisest  man  to  under- 
stand thoroughly  a  woman.  Goethe  says  somewhere  that  the 
highest  genius  in  man  must  have  much  of  the  woman  in 
it.  If  this  be  true,  the  highest  genius  alone  in  man  can  com- 
prehend and  explain  the  nature  of  woman  ;  because  it  is  not 
remote  from  him,  but  an  integral  part  of  his  masculine  self.  I 
am  not  sure,  however,  that  it  necessitates  the  highest  genius, 
but  rather  a  special  idiosyncrasy  in  genius  which  the  highest 
may  or  may  not  have.  I  think  Sophocles  a  higher  genius  than 
Euripides  ;  but  Euripides  has  that  idiosyncrasy,  and  Sophocles 
not.  I  doubt  whether  women  would  accept  Goethe  as  their 
interpreter  with  the  same  readiness  with  which  they  would  ac- 
cept Schiller.  Shakspeare,  no  doubt,  excels  all  poets  in  the 
comprehension  of  women,  in  his  sympathy  with  them  in  the 
woman-part  of  his  nature  which  Goethe  ascribes  to  the  highest 
genius;  but,  putting  aside  that  "monster,"  I  do  not  remember 
any  English  poet  whom  we  should  consider  conspicuously  emi- 
nent in  that  lore,  unless  it  be  the  prose  poet,  nowadays  gen- 
erally underrated  and  little  read,  who  wrote  the  letters  of  Cla- 
rissa Harlowe.  I  say  all  this  in  vindication  of  Graham  Vane, 
if,  though  a  very  clever  man  in  his  way,  and  by  no  means  unin- 
structed  in  human  nature,  he  had  utterly  failed  in  comprehend- 
ing the  mysteries  which  to  this  poor  woman-child  seemed  to 
need  no  key  for  one  who  really  loved  her.  But  we  have  said 
somewhere  before  in  this  book  that  music  speaks  in  a  lan- 
guage which  cannot  explain  itself  except  in  music.  So  speaks, 
in  the  human  heart,  much  which  is  akin  to  music.  Fiction 
(that  is,  poetry,  whether  in  form  of  rhyme  or  prose)  speaks 
thus  pretty  often.  A  reader  must  be  more  commonplace  than, 
I  trust,  my  gentle  readers  are,  if  he  suppose  that  when  Isaura 
symbolized  the  real  hero  of  her  thoughts  in  the  fabled  hero  of 
her  romance,  she  depicted  him  as  one  of  whom  the  world  could 
say,  "  That  is  Graham  Vane."  I  doubt  if  even  a  male  poet 
would  so  vulgarize  any  woman  whom  he  thoroughly  rever- 
enced and  loved.  She  is  too  sacred  to  him  to  be  thus  unveiled 
to  the  public  stare ;  as  the  sweetest  of  all  ancient  love-poets 
says  well — 

"  Qui  sapit  in  tacito  gaudeat  ille  §iny," 


278  THE    PARISIANS. 

But  a  girl,  a  girl  in  her  first  untold,  timid  love,  to  let  the  world 
know,  "  that  is  the  man  I  love  and  would  die  for  !  " — if  such  a 
girl  be,  she  has  no  touch  of  the  true  woman-genius,  and  cer- 
tainly she  and  Isaura  have  nothing  in  common.  Well,  then,  in 
Isaura's  invented  hero,  though  she  saw  the  archetypal  form  of. 
Graham  Vane — saw  him  as  in  her  young,  vague,  romantic 
dreams,  idealized,  beautified,  transfigured — he  would  have  been 
the  vainest  of  men  if  he  had  seen  therein  the  reflection  of  him- 
self. On  the  contrary,  he  said,  in  the  spirit  of  that  jealousy  to 
which  he  was  too  prone  :  "  Alas  !  this,  then,  is  some  ideal, 
already  seen,  perhaps,  compared  to  which  how  commonplace 
am  I  !"  and  thus  persuading  himself,  no  wonder  that  the  senti- 
ments surrounding  this  unrecognized  archetype  appeared  to  him 
over-romantic.  His  taste  acknowledged  the  beauty  of  form 
which  clothed  them  ;  his  heart  envied  the  ideal  that  inspired 
them.  But  they  seemed  so  remote  from  him  ;  they  put  the 
dreamland  of  the  writer  farther  and  farther  from  his  workday 
real  life. 

In  this  frame  of  mind,  then,  he  had  written  to  Savarin,  and 
the  answer  he  received  hardened  it  still  more!  Savarin  had 
replied,  as  was  his  laudable  wont  in  correspondence,  the  very 
day  he  received  Graham's  letter,  and  therefore  before  he  had, 
even  seen  Isaura.  In  his  reply,  he  spoke  much  of  the  success 
her  work  had  obtained  ;  of  the  invitations  showered  upon  her, 
and  the  sensation  she  caused  in  the  salons :  of  her  future 
career,  with  hope  that  she  might  even  rival  Madame  de  Grant- 
mesnil  some  day,  when  her  ideas  became  emboldened  by 
maturer  experience,  and  a  closer  study  of  that  model  of  elo- 
quent style, — saying  that  the  young  editor  was  evidently  becom- 
ing enamoured  of  his  fair  contributor  ;  and  that  Madame 
Savarin  had  ventured  the  prediction  that  the  Signorina's  roman 
would  end  in  the  death  of  the  heroine,  and  the  marriage  of 
the  writer. 

CHAPTER  V. 

AND  still  the  weeks  glided  on  :  autumn  succeeded  to  sum- 
mer, the  winter  to  autumn  ;  the  season  of  Paris  was  at  its  height. 
The  wondrous  capital  seemed  to  repay  its  Imperial  embellisher 
by  the  splendor  and  the  joy  of  its /<?/<?.$•.  But  the  smiles  on  the 
face  of  Paris  were  hypocritical  and  hollow.  The  Empire  itself 
had  passed  out  of  fashion.  Grave  men  and  impartial  observers 
felt  anxious.  Napoleon  had  renounced  les  idees  Napoleoniennes. 
He  was  passing  into  the  category  of  constitutional  sovereigns, 


THE    PARISIANS.  279 

and  reigning,  not  by  his  old  undivided  prestige,  but  by  the 
grace  of  party.  The  press  was  free  to  circulate  complaints  as 
to  the  past  and  demands  as  to  the  future,  beneath  which  the 
present  reeled,  ominous  of  earthquake.  People  asked  them- 
selves if  it  were  possible  that  the  Empire  could  coexist  with 
forms  of  government  not  imperial,  yet  not  genuinely  constitu- 
tional, with  a  majority  daily  yielding  to  a 'minority.  The  basis 
of  universal  suffrage  was  sapped.  About  this  time  the  articles 
in  the  Sens  Commun  signed  Pierre  Firmin  were  creating  not 
only  considerable  sensation,  but  marked  effect  on  opinion  : 
and  the  sale  of  the  journal  was  immense. 

Necessarily  the  repute  and  the  position  of  Gustave  Rameau, 
as  the  avowed  editor  of  this  potent  journal,  rose  with  its  suc- 
cess. Nor  only  his  repute  and  position  ;  banknotes  of  con- 
siderable value  were  transmitted  to  him  by  the  publisher,  with 
the  brief  statement  that  they  were  sent  by  the  sole  proprietor 
of  the  paper  as  the  editor's  fair  share  of  profit.  The  proprietor 
was  never  named,  but  Rameau  took  it  for  granted  that  it  was 
M.  Lebeau.  M.  Lebeau  he  had  never  seen  since  the  day  he 
had  brought  him  the  list  of  contributors,  and  was  then  referred 
to  the  publisher,  whom  he  supposed  M.  Lebeau  had  secured, 
and  received  the  first  quarter  of  his  salary  in  advance.  The 
salary  was  a  trifle  compared  to  the  extra  profits  thus  generously 
volunteered.  He  called  at  Lebeau's  office,  and  saw  only  the 
clerk,  who  said  that  his  patron  was  abroad. 

Prosperity  produced  a  marked  change  for  the  better,  if  not 
in  the  substance  of  Rameau's  character,  at  least  in  his  manners 
and  social  converse.  He  no  longer  exhibited  that  restless  envy 
of  rivals,  which  is  the  most  repulsive  symptom  of  vanity  dis- 
eased. He  pardoned  Isaura  her  success ;  nay,  he  was  even 
pleased  at  it.  The  nature  of  her  work  did  not  clash  with  his 
own  kind  of  writing.  It  was  so  thoroughly  woman-like,  that 
one  could  not  compare  it  to  a  man's.  Moreover,  that  success 
had  contributed  largely  to  the  profits  by  which  he  had  bene- 
fited, and  to  his  renown  as  editor  of  the  journal  which  accorded 
place  to  this  new-found  genius.  But  there  was  a  deeper  and 
more  potent  cause  for  sympathy  with  the  success  of  his  fair 
young  contributor.  He  had  imperceptibly  glided  into  love 
with  her — a  love  very  different  from  that  with  which  poor  Julie 
Caumartin  flattered  herself  she  had  inspired  the  young  poet. 
Isaura  was  one  of  those  women  for  whom,  even  in  natures  the 
least  chivalric,  love,  however  ardent,  cannot  fail  to  be  accom- 
'panied  with  a  certain  reverence — the  reverence  with  which  the 
ancient  knighthood,  in  its  love  for  women,  honored  the  ideal 


280  THE    PARISIANS. 

purity  of  womanhood   itself.     Till   then  Rameau  had  never 
revered  any  one. 

On  her  side,  brought  so  frequently  into  communication  with 
the  young  conductor  of  the  journal  in  which  she  wrote,  Isaura 
entertained  for  him  a  friendly,  almost  sister-like  affection. 

I  do  not  think  that,  even  if  she  had  never  known  the  English- 
man, she  would  have  really  become  in  love  with  Rameau, 
despite  the  picturesque  beauty  of  his  countenance,  and  the 
congeniality  of  literary  pursuits  ;  but  perhaps  she  might  have 
fancied  herself  in  love  with  him.  And  till  one,  whether  man  or 
woman,  has  known  real  love,  fancy  is  readily  mistaken  for  it. 
But  little  as  she  had  seen  of  Graham,  and  that  little  not  in  it- 
self wholly  favorable  to  him,  she  knew  in  her  heart  of  hearts 
that  his  image  would  never  be  replaced  by  one  equally  dear. 
Perhaps  in  those  qualities  that  placed  him  in  opposition  to  her 
she  felt  his  attractions.  The  poetical  in  woman  exaggerates 
the  worth  of  the  practical  in  man.  Still  for  Rameau  her  ex- 
quisitely kind  and  sympathizing  nature  conceived  one  of  those 
sentiments  which  in  woman  are  almost  angel-like.  We  have 
seen  in  her  letters  to  Madame  de  Grantmesnil  that  from 
the  first  he  inspired  her  with  a  compassionate  interest  ; 
then  the  compassion  was  checked  by  her  perception  of  his 
more  unamiable  and  envious  attributes.  But  now  those 
attributes,  if  still  existent,  had  ceased  to  be  apparent  to  her, 
and  the  compassion  became  unalloyed.  Indeed,  it  was  thus 
so  far  increased,  that  it  was  impossible  for  any  friendly  ob- 
server to  look  at  the  beautiful  face  of  this  youth,  prematurely 
wasted  and  worn,  without  the  kindliness  of  pity.  His  pros- 
perity had  brightened  and  sweetened  the  expression  of  that 
face,  but  it  had  not  effaced  the  vestiges  of  decay  ;  rather  per- 
haps deepened  them,  for  the  duties  of  his  post  necessitated  a 
regular  labor,  to  which  he  had  been  unaccustomed,  and  the 
regular  labor  necessitated,  or  seemed  to  him  to  necessitate,  an 
increase  of  fatal  stimulants.  He  imbibed  absinthe  with  every- 
thing he  drank,  and  to  absinthe  he  united  opium.  This,  of 
course,  Isaura  knew  not,  any  more  than  she  knew  of  his  liaison 
with  the  "  Ondine  "  of  his  muse;  she  saw  only  the  increasing 
delicacy  of  his  face  and  form,  contrasted  by  his  increased 
geniality  and  liveliness  of  spirits,  and  the  contrast  saddened 
her.  Intellectually,  too,  she  felt  for  him  compassion.  She 
recognized  and  respected  in  him  the  yearnings  of  a  genius  too 
weak  to  perform  a  tithe  of  what,  in  the  arrogance  of  youth,  it 
promised  to  his  ambition.  She  saw,  too,  those  struggles  be-' 
tween  a  higher  and  a  lower  self,  to  which  a  weak  degree  of 


THE    PARISIANS.  281 

genius,  united  with  a  strong  degree  of  arrogance,  is  so  often 
subjected.  Perhaps  she  over-estimated  the  degree  of  genius, 
and  what,  if  rightly  guided,  it  could  do ;  but  she  did,  in  the 
desire  of  her  own  heavenlier  instinct,  aspire  to  guide  it  heaven- 
Avard.  And,  as  if  she  were  twenty  years  older  than  himself, 
'she  obeyed  that  desire  in  remonstrating  and  warning  and  urg- 
ing, and  the  young  man  took  all  these  "  preachments  "  with  a 
pleased,  submissive  patience.  Such,  as  the  new  year  dawned 
upon  the  grave  of  the  old  one,  was  the  position  between  these 
two.  And  nothing  more  was  heard  from  Graham  Vane. 

CHAPTER  VI. 

IT  has  now  become  due  to  Graham  Vane,  and  to  his  place 
in  the  estimation  of  my  readers,  to  explain  somewhat  more  dis- 
tinctly the  nature  of  the  quest  in  prosecution  of  which  he  had 
sought  the  aid  of  the  Parisian  police,  and,  under  an  assumed 
name,  made  the  acquaintance  of  M.  Lebeau. 

The  best  way  of  discharging  this  duty  will  perhaps  be  to 
place  before  the  reader  the  contents  of  the  letter  which  passed 
under  Graham's  eyes  on  the  day  in  which  the  heart  of  the 
writer  ceased  to  beat. 

"  Confidential. 
"  To  be  opened  immediately  after  my  death,  and  before  the  perusal 

of  my  will.  Richard  King. 

"  To  GRAHAM  VANE,  Esq. 

"  MY  DEAR  GRAHAM  :  By  the  direction  on  the  envelope  of 
this  letter,  'before  the  perusal  of  my  will,'  I  have  wished  to 
save  you  from  the  disappointment  you  would  naturally  experi- 
ence if  you  learned  my  bequest  without  being  prevised  of  the 
conditions  which  I  am  about  to  impose  upon  your  honor.  You 
will  see  ere  you  conclude  this  letter  that  you  are  the  only  man 
living  to  whom  I  could  intrust  the  secret  it  contains  and  the 
task  it  enjoins. 

"  You  are  aware  that  I  was  not  born  to  the  fortune  that 
passed  to  me  by  the  death  of  a  distant  relation, ^ho  had,  in  my 
earlier  youth,  children  of  his  own.  I  was  an  only  son,  left  an 
orphan  at  the  age  of  sixteen  with  a  very  slender  pittance.  My 
guardians  designed  me  for  the  medical  profession.  I  began 
my  studies  at  Edinburgh,  and  was  sent  to  Paris  to  complete 
them.  It  so  chanced  that  there  I  lodged  in  the  same  house 
with  an  artist  named  Auguste  Duval,  who,  failing  to  gain  his 
livelihood  as  a  painter,  in  what — for  his  style  was  ambitious — 
is  termed  the  Historical  School,  had  accepted  the  humbler  call- 


282  THE  PARISIANS. 

ing  of  a  drawing-master.  He  had  practised  in  that  branch  of 
the  profession  for  several  years  at  Tours,  having  a  good 
clientele  among  English  families  settled  there.  This  clientele^ 
as  he  frankly  confessed,  he  had  lost  from  some  irregularities  of 
conduct.  He  was  not  a  bad  man,  but  of  convivial  temper,  and 
easily  led  into  temptation.  He  had  removed  to  Paris  a  few 
months  before  I  made  his  acquaintance.  He  obtained  a  few  pu- 
pils and  often  lost  them  as  soon  as  gained.  He  was  unpunctual 
and  addicted  to  drink.  But  he  had  a  small  pension  accorded 
to  him,  he  was  wont  to  say  mysteriously,  by  some  high-born 
kinsfolk,  too  proud  to  own  connection  with  a  drawing-mas- 
ter, and  on  the  condition  that  he  should  never  name  them. 
He  never  did  name  them  to  me,  and  I  do  not  know  to 
this  day  whether  the  story  of  this  noble  relationship  was 
true  or  false.  A  pension,  however,  he  did  receive  quar- 
terly from  some  person  or  other,  and  it  was  an  un- 
happy provision  for  him.  It  tended  to  make  him  an 
idler  in  his  proper  calling  ;  and  whenever  he  received  the 
payment  he  spent  it  in  debauch,  to  the  neglect,  while  it  lasted, 
of  his  pupils.  This  man  had  residing  with  him  a  young  daugh- 
ter, singularly  beautiful.  You  may  divine  the  rest.  I  fell  in 
love  with  her — a  love  deepened  by  the  compassion  with  which 
she  inspired  me.  Her  father  left  her  so  frequently,  that,  living 
on  the  same  floor,  we  saw  much  of  each  other.  Parent  and 
child  were  often  in  great  need — lacking  even  fuel  or  food. 
Of  course  I  assisted  them  to  the  utmost  of  my  scanty  means. 
Much  as  I  was  fascinated  by  Louise  Duval,  I  was  not  blind  to 
great  defects  in  her  character.  She  was  capricious,  vain,  aware 
of  her  beauty,  and  sighing  for  the  pleasures  or  the  gauds  be- 
yond her  reach.  I  knew  that  she  did  not  love  me — there  was 
little,  indeed,  to  captivate  her  fancy  in  a  poor,  threadbare  med- 
ical student — and  yet  I  fondly  imagined  that  my  own  persever- 
ing devotion  would  at  length  win  her  affections.  I  spoke  to 
her  father  more  than  once  of  my  hope  some  day  -to  make 
Louise  my  wife.  This  hope,  I  must  frankly  acknowledge,  he 
never  encouragfd.  On  the  contrary,  he  treated  it  with  scorn. 
'  His  child  with  her  beauty  would  look  much  higher,'  but  he 
continued  all  the  same  to  accept  my  assistance,  and  to  sanc- 
tion my  visits.  At  length  my  slender  purse  was  pretty  well 
exhausted,  and  the  luckless  drawing-master  was  so  harassed 
with  petty  debts  that  farther  credit  became  impossible.  At 
this  time  I  happened  to  hear  from  a  fellow-student  that  his  sis- 
ter, who  was  the  principal  of  a  lady's  school  in  Cheltenham, 
had  commissioned  him  to  look  out  for  a  first-rate  teacher  of 


THE   PARISIANS.  283 

drawing,  with  whom  her  elder  pupils  could  converse  in  French, 
but  who  should  be  sufficiently  acquainted  with  English  to  make 
his  instructions  intelligible  to  the  young.  The  salary  was  lib- 
eral, the  school  large  and  of  high  repute,  and  his  appointment 
to  it  would  open  to  an  able  teacher  no  inconsiderable  connec- 
tion among  private  families.  I  communicated  {his  intelligence 
to  Duval.  He  caught  at  it  eagerly.  He  had  learned  at  Tours 
to  speak  English  fluently  ;  and  as  his  professional  skill  was  of 
high  order,  and  he  was  popular  with  several  eminent  artists,  he 
obtained  certificates  as  to  his  talents,  which  my  fellow-student 
forwarded  to  England,  with  specimens  of  Duval's  drawings.  In 
a  few  days  the  offer  of  an  engagement  arrived,  was  accepted, 
and  Duval  and  his  daughter  set  out  for  Cheltenham.  At  the 
eve  of  their  departure,  Louise,  profoundly  dejected  at  the  pros- 
pect of  banishment  to  a  foreign  country,  and  placing  no  trust 
in  her  father's  reform  to  steady  habits,  evinced  a  tenderness 
for  me  hitherto  new — she  wept  bitterly.  She  allowed  me  to  be- 
lieve that  her  tears  flowed  at  the  thought  of  parting  with  me, 
and  even  besought  me  to  accompany  them  to  Cheltenham — if 
only  for  a  few  days.  You  may  suppose  how  delightedly  I  com- 
plied with  the  request.  Duval  had  been  about  a  week  at  the 
watering-place,  and  was  discharging  the  duties  he  had  under- 
taken with  such  unwonted  steadiness  and  regularity  that  I  be- 
gan sorrowfully  to  feel  I  had  no  longer  an  excuse  for  not  re- 
turning to  my  studies  at  Paris,  when  the  poor  teacher  was 
sei/ed  with  a  fit  of  paralysis\  He  lost  the  power  of  movement, 
and  his  mind  was  affected.  The  medical  attendant  called  in 
said  that  he  might  linger  thus  for  some  time,  but  that,  even  if 
he  recovered  his  intellect,  which  was  more  than  doubtful, 
he  would  never  be  able  to  resume  his  profession.  I  could  not 
leave  Louise  in  circumstances  so  distressing ;  I  remained. 
The  little  money  Duval  had  brought  from  Paris  was  now  ex- 
hausted ;  and  when  the  day  on  which  he  had  been  in  the 
habit  of  receiving  his  quarter's  pension  came  round,  Louise 
was  unable  even  to  conjecture  how  it  was  to  be  applied  for.  It 
seems  that  he  had  always  gone  for  it  in  person,  but  to  whom 
he  went  was  a  secret  which  he  had  never  divulged.  And  at 
this  critical  juncture  his  mind  was  too  enfeebled  even  to  com- 
prehend us  when  we  inquired.  I  had  already  drawn  from  the 
small  capital  on  the  interest  of  which  I  had  maintained  myself ; 
I  now  drew  out  most  of  the  remainder.  But  thij  was  a  re- 
source that  could  not  last  long.  Nor  could  I,  without  seriously 
compromising  Louise's  character,  be  constantly  in  the  house 
with  a  girl  so  young,  and  whose  sole  legitimate  protector  wa> 


284  THE    PARISIANS. 

thus  afflicted.  There  seemed  but  one  alternative  to  that  of 
•abandoning  her  altogether,  viz.,  to  make  her  my  wife,  to  con- 
clude the  studies  necessary  to  obtain  my  diploma,  and  purchase 
some  partnership  in  a  small  country  practice  with  the  scanty 
surplus  that  might  be  left  of  my  capital.  I  placed  this  option 
before  Louise  timidly,  for  I  could  not  bear  the  thought  of 
forcing  her  inclinations.  She  seemed  much  moved  by  what 
she  called  my  generosity  :  she  consented  ;  we  were  married. 
I  was,  as  you  may  conceive,  wholly  ignorant  of  French  law. 
We  were  married  according  to  the  English  ceremony  and  the 
Protestant  ritual.  Shortly  after  our  marriage  we  all  three  re- 
turned to  Paris,  taking  an  apartment  in  a  quarter  remote  from 
that  in  which  we  had  before  lodged,  in  order  to  avoid  any  har- 
assment to  which  such  small  creditors  as  Duval  had  left  behind 
him  might  subject  us.  I  resumed  my  studies  with  redoubled 
energy,  and  Louise  was  necessarily  left  much  alone  with  her 
poor  father  in  the  daytime.  The  defects  in  her  character  be- 
came more  and  more  visible.  She  reproached  me  for  the  soli- 
tude to  which  I  condemned  her  ;  our  poverty  galled  her  ;  she 
had  no  kind  greeting  for  me  when  I  returned  at  evening, 
wearied  out.  Before  marriage  she  had  not  loved  me — after 
marriage,  alas  !  I  fear  she  hated.  We  had  been  returned  to 
Paris  some  months  when  poor  Duval  died  :  he  had  never  re- 
covered his  faculties,  nor  had  we  ever  learned  from  whom  his 
pension  had  been  received.  Very  soon  after  her  father's  death 
I  observed  a  singular  change  in  the  humor  and  manner  of 
Louise.  She  was  no  longer  peevish,  irascible,  reproachful ; 
but  taciturn  and  thoughtful.  She  seemed  to  me  under  the  in- 
fluence of  some  suppressed  excitement :  her  cheeks  flushed 
and  her  eye  abstracted.  At  length,  one  evening  when  I  re- 
turned I  found  her  gone.  She  did  not  come  back  that  night 
nor  the  next  day.  It  was  impossible  for  me  to  conjecture  what 
had  become  of  her.  She  had  no  friends,  so  far  as  I  knew — no 
one  had  visited  at  our  squalid  apartment.  The  poor  house  in 
which  we  lodged  had  no  concierge  \\\\om  I  could  question  ;  but 
the  ground-floor  was  occupied  by  a  small  tobacconist's  shop, 
and  the  woman  at  the  counter  told  me  that  for  some  days 
before  my  wife's  disappearance  she  had  observed  her  pass  the 
shop  window  in  going  out  in  the  afternoon  and  returning  to- 
wards the  evening.  Two  terrible  conjectures  beset  me  :  either 
in  her  walk  she  had  met  some  admirer,  with  whom  she  had 
fled  ;  or,  unable  to  bear  the  companionship  and  poverty  of  a 
union  which  she  had  begun  to  loathe,  she  had  gone  forth  tc 
drown  herself  in  the  Seine.  On  the  third  day  from  her  flight  / 


THE    PARISIANS.  285 

received  the  letter  I  enclose.     Possibly  the  handwriting  may 
serve  you  as  a  guide  in  the  mission  I  intrust  to  you  : 

"  '  MONSIEUR  :  You  have  deceived  me  vilely — taken  advant- 
age of  my  inexperienced  youth  and  friendless  position  to  decoy 
me  into  an  illegal  marriage.  My  only  consolation  under  my  ca- 
lamity and  disgrace  is,  that  I  am  at  least  free  from  a  detested 
bond.  You  will  not  see  me  again  ;  it  is  idle  to  attempt  to  do 
so.  I  have  obtained  refuge  with  relations  whom  I  have  been 
fortunate  enough  to  discover,  and  to  whom  I  intrust  my  fate. 
And  even  if  you  could  learn  the  shelter  I  have  sought,  and 
have  the  audacity  to  molest  me,  you  would  but  subject  your- 
self to  the  chastisement  you  so  richly  deserve. 

"  '  LOUISE  DUVAL,' 

"At  the  perusal  of  this  cold-hearted,  ungrateful  letter,  the 
love  I  had  felt  for  this  woman — already  much  shaken  by  her 
wayward  and  perverse  temper  — vanished  from  my  heart,  never 
to  return.  But  as  an  honest  man,  my  conscience  was  terribly 
stung.  Could  it  be  possible  that  I  had  unknowingly  deceived 
her — that  our  marriage  was  not  legal  ? 

"  When  I  recovered  from  the  stun  which  was  the  first  effect 
of  her  letter,  I  sought  the  opinion  of  an  avout'vn.  the  neighbor- 
hood, named  Sartiges,  and,  to  my  dismay,  I  learned  that  while 
I,  marrying  according  to  the  customs  of  my  own  country,  was 
legally  bound  to  Louise  in  England,  and  could  not  marry  an- 
other, the  marriage  was  in  all  ways  illegal  for  her — being  with- 
out the  consent  of  her  relations  while  she  was  under  age  ;  with- 
out the  ceremonials  of  the  Roman  Catholic  Church,  to  which, 
though  I  never  heard  any  profession  of  religious  belief  from  her 
or  her  father,  it  might  fairly  be  presumed  that  she  belonged; 
and,  above  all,  without  the  form  of  civil  contract  which  is  in- 
dispensable to  the  legal  marriage  of  a  French  subject. 

"  The  avoud  said  that  the  marriage,  therefore,  in  itself  was 
null,  and  that  Louise  could,  without  incurring  legal  penalties  for 
bigamy,  marry  again  in  France  according  to  the  French  laws ; 
but  that,  under  the  circumstances,  it  was  probable  that  her  next 
of  kin  would  apply  on  her  behalf  to  the  proper  court  for  the 
formal  annulment  of  the  marriage,  which  would  be  the  most  ef- 
fectual mode  of  saving  her  from  any  molestation  on  my  part, 
and  remove  all  possible  question  hereafter  as  to  her  single  state 
and  absolute  right  to  remarry.  I  had  better  remain  quiet,  and 
wait  for  intimation  of  further  proceedings.  I  knew  not  what 
else  to  do,  and  necessarily  submitted. 

"  From  this  wretched  listlessness  of  mind,  alternated  now  by 


286  THE    PARISIANS. 

vehement  resentment  against  Louise,  now  by  the  reproach  of 
my  own  sense  of  honor  in  leaving  that  honor  in  so  questionable 
a  point  of  view,  I  was  aroused  by  a  letter  from  the  distant  kins- 
man by  whom  hitherto  I  had  been  so  neglected.  In  the  previ- 
ous year  he  had  lost  one  of  his  two  children  ;  the  other  was 
just  dead  :  no  nearer  relation  now  surviving  stood  between  me 
and  my  chance  of  inheritance  from  him.  He  wrote  word  of 
his  domestic  affliction  with  a  manly  sorrow  which  touched  me, 
said  that  his  health  was  failing,  and  begged  me,  as  soon  as 
possible,  to  come  and  visit  him  in  Scotland.  I  went,  and  con- 
tinued to  reside  with  him  till  his  death,  some  months  after- 
wards. By  his  will  I  succeeded  to  his  ample  fortune  on  con- 
dition of  taking  his  name. 

"  As  soon  as  the  affairs  connected  with  this  inheritance  per- 
mitted, I  returned  to  Paris,  and  again  saw  M.  Sartiges.  1  had 
never  heard  from  Louise,  nor  from  any  one  connected  with  her, 
since  the  letter  you  have  read.  No  steps  had  been  taken  to 
annul  the  marriage,  and  sufficient  time  had  elapsed  to  render 
it  improbable  that  such  steps  would  be  taken  now.  But  if  no 
such  steps  were  taken,  however  free  from  the  marriage-bond 
Louise  might  be,  it  clearly  remained  binding  on  myself. 

"  At  my  request,  M.  Sartiges  took  the  most  vigorous  meas- 
ures that  occurred  to  him  to  ascertain  where  Louise  was,  and 
what  and  who  was  the  relation  with  whom  she  asserted  she  had 
found  refuge.  The  police  were  employed,  advertisements  were 
issued,  concealing  names,  but  sufficiently  clear  to  be  intelligi- 
ble to  Louise  if  they  came  under  her  eye,  and  to  the  effect  that 
if  any  informality  in  our  marriage  existed,  she  was  implored 
for  her  own  sake  to  remove  it  by  a  second  ceremonial — answer 
to  be  addressed  to  the  avout.  No  answer  came  ;  the  police  had 
hitherto  failed  of  discovering  her,  but  were  sanguine  of  success, 
when  a  few  weeks  after  these  advertisements  a  packet  reached 
M.  Sartiges,  enclosing  the  certificates  annexed  to  this  letter,  of 
the  death  of  Louise  Duval  at  Munich.  The  certificates,  as  you 
will  see,  are  to  appearance  officially  attested  and  unquestion- 
ably genuine.  So  they  were  considered  by  M.  Sartiges  as  well 
as  by  myself.  Here,  then,  all  inquiry  ceased  ;  the  police  were 
dismissed.  I  was  free.  By  little  and  little  I  overcame  the 
painful  impressions  which  my  ill-starred  union  and  the  an- 
nouncement of  Louise's  early  death  bequeathed.  Rich,  and 
of  active  mind,  I  learned  to  dismiss  the  trials  of  my  youth  as  a 
gloomy  dream.  I  entered  into  public  life  ;  I  made  myself  a 
creditable  position  ;  became  acquainted  with  your  aunt  ;  we 
were  wedded,  and  the  beauty  of  her  nature  embellished  mine, 


THE    PARISIANS.  287 

Alas,  alas  !  two  years  after  our  marriage — nearly  five  years 
after  I  had  received  the  certificates  of  Louise's  death — I  and 
your  aunt  made  a  summer  excursion  into  the  country  of  the 
Rhine  ;  on  our  return  we  rested  at  Aix  la-Chapelle.  One  day 
while  there  I  was  walking  alone  in  the  environs  of  the  town, 
when,  on  the  road,  a  little  girl,  seemingly  about  five  years  old, 
in  chase  of  a  butterfly,  stumbled  and  fell  just  before  my  feet  ; 
I  took  her  up,  and  as  she  was  crying  more  from  the  shock  of 
the  fall  than  any  actual  hurt,  I  was  still  trying  my  best  to  com- 
fort her,  when  a  lady  some  paces  behind  her  came  up,  and  in 
taking  the  child  from  my  arms  as  I  was  bending  over  her, 
thanked  me  in  a  voice  that  made  my  heart  stand  still ;  I  looked 
up  and  beheld  Louise. 

"  It  was  not  till  I  had  convulsively  clasped  her  hand  and 
uttered  her  name  that  she  recognized  me.  I  was,  no  doubt, 
the  more  altered  of  the  two  ;  prosperity  and  happiness  had  left 
little  trace  of  the  needy,  careworn,  threadbare  student.  But  if 
she  were  the  last  to  recognize  she  was  the  first  to  recover  self- 
possession.  The  expression  of  her  face  became  hard  and  set.  I 
cannot  pretend  to  repeat  with  any  verbal  accuracy  the  brief  con- 
verse that  took  place  between  us  as  she  placed  the  child  on  the 
grass  bank  beside  the  path,  bade  her  stay  there  quietly,  and 
walked  on  with  me  some  paces,  as  if  she  did  not  wish  the  child 
to  hear  what  was  said. 

"  The  purport  of  what  passed  was  to  this  effect  :  She  re- 
fused to  explain  the  certificates  of  her  death  further  than  that, 
becoming  aware  of  what  she  called  the '  persecution  '  of  the  adver- 
tisements issued  and  inquiries  instituted,  she  had  caused  those 
documents  to  be  sent  to  the  address  given  in  the  advertisement, 
in  order  to  terminate  all  further  molestation.  But  how  they 
could  have  been  obtained,  or  by  what  art  so  ingeniously  forged 
as  to  deceive  the  acuteness  of  a  practised  lawyer,  I  know  not 
to  this  day.  She  declared,  indeed,  that  she  was  now  happy,  in 
e'asy  circumstances,  and  that  if  I  wished  to  make  some  repara- 
tion for  the  wrong  I  had  done  her,  it  would  be  to  leave  her  in 
peace  ;  and  in  case — which  was  not  likely — we  ever  met  again,  to 
regard  and  treat  her  as  a  stranger  ;  that  she,  on  her  part,  never 
would  molest  me,  and  that  the  certified  death  of  Louise  Duval 
left  me  as  free  to  marry  again  as  she  considered  herself  to'  be, 

"My  mind  was  so  confused,  so  bewildered,  while  she  thus 
talked,  that  I  did  not  attempt  to  interrupt  her.  The  blow  had 
so  crushed  me  that  I  scarcely  struggled  under  it ;  only,  as  she 
turned  to  leave  me,  I  suddenly  recollected  that  the  child,  when 
taken  from  my  arms,  had  called  her  ' Mamcm]  and,  judging  by 


288      w  THE    PARISIANS. 

the  apparent  age  of  the  child,  it  must  have  been  born  but  a 
few  months  after  Louise  had  left  me — that  it  must  be  mine. 
And  so,  in  my  dreary  woe,  I  faltered  out  :  '  But  what  of  your 
infant  ?  Surely  that  has  on  me  a  claim  that  you  relinquish  for 
yourself.  You  were  not  unfaithful  to  me  while  you  deemed 
you  were  my  wife  ? ' 

"'Heavens  !  Can  you  insult  me  by  such  a  doubt?  No  ! ' 
she  cried  out,  impulsively  and  haughtily.  '  But  as  I  was  not 
legally  your  wife,  the  child  is  not  legally  yours  ;  it  is  mine, 
and  only  mine.  Nevertheless,  if  you  wish  to  claim  it,' — here 
she  paused  as  in  doubt.  I  saw  at  once  that  she  was  prepared 
to  resign  to  me  the  child  if  I  had  urged  her  to  do  so.  I  must 
own,  with  a  pang  of  remorse,  that  I  recoiled  from  such  a  proposal. 
What  could  I  do  with  the  child  ?  How  explain  to  my  wife  the 
cause  of  my  interest  in  it  ?  If  only  a  natural  child  of  mine,  I 
should  have  shrunk  from  owning  to  Janet  a  youthful  error. 
But,  as  it  was — the  child-  by  a  former  marriage,  the  former 
wife  still  living  ! — my  blood  ran  cold  with  dread.  And  if  I 
did  take  the  child,  invent  what  story  1  might  as  to  its  parent- 
age, should  I  not  expose  myself,  expose  Janet,  to  terrible,  con- 
stant danger  ?  The  mother's  natural  affection  might  urge  her 
at  any  time  to  seek  tidings  of  the  child,  and  in  so  doing  she 
might  easily  discover  my  new  name,  and,  perhaps  years  hence, 
establish  on  me  her  own  claim. 

" '  No,  I  could  not  risk  such  perils,'  I  replied  sullenly. 
'  You  say  rightly  ;  the  child  is  yours — only  yours.'  I  was 
about  to  add  an  offer  of  pecuniary  provision  for  it,  but  Louise 
had  already  turned  scornfully  towards  the  bank  on  which  she 
had  left  the  infant.  I  saw  her  snatch  from  the  child's  hand 
some  wild  flowers  the  poor  thing  had  been  gathering  ;  and 
how  often  have  I  thought  of  the  rude  way  in  which  she  did 
it — not  as  a  mother  who  loves  her  child.  Just  then  other  pas- 
sengers appeared  on  the  road  ;  two  of  them  I  knew---an  Eng- 
lish couple  very  intimate  with  Lady  Janet  and  myself.  They 
stopped  to  accost  me,  while  Louise  passed  by  with  the  infant 
towards  the  town.  I  turned  in  the  opposite  direction,  and 
strove  to  collect  my  thoughts.  Terrible  as  was  the  discovery 
thus  suddenly  made,  it  was  evident  that  Louise  had  as  strong 
an  interest  as  myself  to  conceal  it.  There  was  little  chance 
that  it  would  ever  be  divulged.  Her  dress  and  that  of  the 
child  were  those  of  persons  in  the  richer  classes  of  life.  After 
all,  doubtless,  the  child  needed  not  pecuniary  assistance  from 
me,  and  was  surely  best  off  under  the  mother's  care.  Thus  I 
sought  to  comfort  and  delude  myself. 


THE    PARISIANS.  289 

"  The  next  day  Janet  and  I  left  Aix-la-Chapelle  and  re- 
v  turned  to  England.  But  it  was  impossible  for  me  to  banish 
the  dreadful  thought  that  Janet  was  not  legally  my  wife  ;  that 
could  she  even  guess  the  secret  lodged  in  my  breast  she  would 
be  lost  to  me  forever,  even  though  she  died  of  the  separation 
(you  know  well  how  tenderly  she  loved  me).  My  nature  un- 
derwent a  silent  revolution.  I  had  previously  cherished  the 
ambition  common  to  most  men  in  public  life — the  ambition 
for  fame,  for  place,  for  power.  That  ambition  left  me ;  I 
shrank  from  the  thought  of  becoming  too  well  known,  lest 
Louise  or  her  connections,  as  yet  ignorant  of  my  new  name, 
might  more  easily  learn  what  the  world  knew,  viz.,  that  I  had 
previously  borne  another  name — the  name  of  her  husband — 
and  finding  me  wealthy  and  honored,  might  hereafter  be 
tempted  to  claim  for  herself  or  her  daughter  the  ties  she  ab- 
jured for  both  while  she  deemed  me  poor  and  despised.  But 
partly  my  conscience,  partly  the  influence  of  the  angel  by  my 
side,  compelled  me  to  seek  whatever  means  of  doing  good  to 
others  position  and  circumstances  placed  at  my  disposal.  I 
was  alarmed  when  even  such  quiet  exercise  of  mind  and  for- 
tune acquired  a  sort  of  celebrity.  How  painfully  I  shrank 
from  it  !  The  world  attributed  my  dread  of  publicity  to  un- 
affected modesty.  The  world  praised  me,  and  I  knew  myself 
an  impostor.  But  the  years  stole  on.  I  heard  no  more  of 
Louise  or  her  child,  and  my  fears  gradually  subsided.  Yet  I 
was  consoled  when  the  two  children  born  to  me  by  Janet  died 
in  their  infancy.  Had  they  lived,  who  can  tell  whether  some- 
thing might  not  have  transpired  to  prove  them  illegitimate?  " 

"  I  must  hasten  on.  At  last  came  the  great  and  crushing 
calamity  of  my  life  :  I  lost  the  woman  who  was  my  all  in  all.  At 
least  she  was  spared  the  discovery  that  would  have  deprived 
me  of  the  right  of  attending  her  deathbed,  and  leaving  within 
her  tomb  a  place  vacant  for  myself. 

"But  after  the  first  agonies  that  followed  her  loss,  the  con- 
science I  had  so  long  sought  to  tranquillize  became  terribly  re- 
proachful. Louise  had  forfeited  all  right  to  my  consideration, 
but  my  guiltless  child  had  not  done  so.  Did  it  live  still?  If 
so,  was  it  not  the  heir  to  my  fortunes — the  only  child  left  to 
me?  True,  I  have  the  absolute  right  to  dispose  of  my  wealth: 
it  is  not  in  land  ;  it  is  not  entailed  ;  but  was  not  the  daughter 
I  had  forsaken  morally  the  first  claimant  ?  Was  no  reparation 
due  to  her?  You  remember  that  my  physician  ordered  me, 
some  little  time  after  your  aunt's  death,  to  seek  a  temporary 
change  of  scene.  I  obeyed,  and  went  away  no  one  knew 


290  THE    PARISIANS. 

whither.  Well,  I  repaired  to  Paris;  there  I  sought  M.  Sartiges, 
the  avoue.  I  found  he  had  been  long  dead.  I  discovered  his 
executors,  and  inquired  if  any  papers  or  correspondence  be- 
tween Richard  Macdonald  and  himself  many  years  ago  were 
in  existence.  All  such  documents,  with 'others  not  returned  to 
correspondents  at  his  decease,  had  been  burned  by  his  desire. 
No  possible  clue  to  the  whereabouts  of  Louise,  should  any 
have  been  gained  since  I  last  saw  her,  was  left.  What  then  to 
do  I  kne-v  not.  I  did  not  dare  to  make  inquiries  through 
strangers,  which,  if  discovering  my  child,  might  also  bring  to 
light  a  marriage  that  would  have  dishonored  the  memory  of  my 
lost  saint.  I  returned  to  England,  feeling  that  my  days  were  num- 
bered. It  is  to  you  that  I  transmit  the  task  of  those  researches 
which  I  could  not  institute.  I  bequeath  to  you,  with  the  ex- 
ception of  trifling  legacies  "and  donations  to  public  charities, 
the  whole  of  my  fortune.  But  you  will  understand  by  this 
letter  that  it  is  to  be  held  on  a  trust  which  I  cannot  specify  in  my 
will.  I  could  not,  without  dishonoring  the  venerated  name  of 
your  aunt,  indicate  as  the  heiress  of  my  wealth  a  child  by  a 
wife  living  at  the  time  I  married  Janet.  I  cannot  form  any 
words  for  such  a  devise  which  would  not  arouse  gossip  and 
suspicion,  and  furnish  ultimately  a  clue  to  the  discovery  I 
would  shun.  I  calculate  that,  after  all  deductions,  the  sum 
that  will  devolve  to  you  will  be  about  ^220,000.  That 
which  I  mean  to  be  absolutely  and  at  once  yours  is  the 
comparatively  trifling  legacy  of  ^20,000.  If  Louise's  child 
be  not  living,  or  if  you  find  full  reason  to  suppose  that, 
despite  appearances,  the  child  is  not  mine,  the  whole  of  my  for- 
tune lapses  to  you  :  but  should  Louise  be  surviving  and  need 
pecuniary  aid,  you  will  contrive  that  she  may  have  such  an  an- 
nuity as  you  may  deem  fitting,  without  learning  whence  it 
come.  You  perceive  that  it  is  your  object,  if  possible,  even 
more  than  mine,  to  preserve  free  from  slur  the  name  and  mem- 
ory of  her  who  was  to  you  a  second  mother.  All  ends  we  de- 
sire would  be  accomplished  could  you,  on  discovering  my  lost 
child,  feel  that,  without  constraining  your  inclinations,  you 
could  make  her  your  wife.  She  would  then  naturally  share 
with  you  my  fortune,  and  all  claims  of  justice  and  duty  would 
be  quietly  appeased.  She  would  now  be  of  age  suitable  to 
yours.  When  I  saw  her  at  Aix  she  gave  promise  of  inheriting 
no  small  share  of  her  mother's  beauty.  If  Louise's  assurance 
of  her  easy  circumstances  were  true,  her  daughter  has  possibly 
been  educated  and  reared  with  tenderness  and  care.  You 
have  already  assured  me  that  you  have  no  prior  attachment. 


THE    PARISIANS.  29! 

But  if,  on  discovering  this  child,  you  find  her  already  married, 
or  one  whom  you  could  not  love  nor  esteem,  I  leave  it  implicit- 
.ly  to  your  honor  and  judgment  to  determine  what  share  of  the 
^200,000  left  in  your  hands  should  be  consigned  to  her.  She 
may  have  been  corrupted  by  her  mother's  principles.  She 
may — Heaven  forbid  ! — have  fallen  into  evil  courses,  and  wealth 
would  be  misspent  in  her  hands.  In  that  case  a  competence 
sufficing  to  save  her  from  further  degradation,  from  the  tempta- 
jrions  of  poverty,  would  be  all  that  I  desire  you  to  devote  from 
my  wealth.  On  the  contrary,  you  may  find  in  her  one  who,  in 
all  respects,  ought  to  be  my  chief  inheritor.  All  this  I  leave  in 
full  confidence  to  you,  as  being,  of  all  the  men  I  know,  the  one 
who  unites  the  highest  sense  of  honor  with  the  largest  share  of 
practical  sense  and  knowledge  of  life.  The  main  difficulty, 
whatever  this  lost  girl  may  derive  from  my  substance,  will  be  in 
devising  some  means  to  convey  it  to  her,  so  that  neither  she 
nor  those  around  her  may  trace  the  bequest  to  me.  She  can 
never  be  acknowledged  as  my  child — never  !  Your  reverence 
for  the  beloved  dead  forbids  that.  This  difficulty  your  clear 
strong  sense  must  overcome  :  mine  is  blinded  by  the  shades  of 
death.  You,  too,  will  deliberately  consider  how  to  institute 
the  inquiries  after  mother  and  child  so  as  not  to  betray  our 
secret.  This  will  require  great  caution.  You  will  probably 
commence  at  Paris,  through  the  agency  of  the  police,  to  whom 
you  will  be  very  guarded  in  your  communications.  It  is  most 
unfortunate  that  I  have  no  miniature  of  Louise,  and  that  any 
description  of  her  must  be  so  vague  that  it  may  not  serve  to 
discover  her  ;  but  such  as  it  is,  it  may  prevent  your  mistaking 
for  her  some  other  of  her  name.  Louise  was  above  the  com- 
mon height,  and  looked  taller  than  she  was,  with  the  peculiar 
combination  of  very  dark  hair,  very  fair  complexion,  and  light 
gray  eyes.  She  would  now  be  somewhat  under  the  age  of 
forty.  She  was.  not  without  accomplishments,  derived  from 
the  companionship  with  her  father.  She  spoke  English  fluent-. 
ly  ;  she  drew  with  taste,  and  even  with  talent.  You  will  see 
the  prudence  of  confining  research  at  first  to  Louise,  rather 
than  to  the  child  who  is  the  principal  object  of  it ;  for  it  is 
not  till  you  can  ascertain  what  has  become  of  her  that  you  can 
trust  the  accuracy  of  any  information  respecting  the  daughter, 
whom  I  assume,  perhaps  after  all  erroneously,  to  be  mine. 
Though  Louise  talked  with  such  levity  of  holding  herself  free 
to  marry,  the  birth  of  her  child  might  be  sufficient  injury  to 
her  reputation  to  become  a  serious  obstacle  to  such  second 
nuptials,  not  having  taken  formal  steps  to  annul  her  marriage 


292  THE    PARISIANS. 

•with  myself.  If  not  thus  re-married,  there  would  be  no  reason 
why  she  should  not  resume  her  maiden  name  of  Duval,  as  she 
did  in  the  signature  of  her  letter  to  me  :  finding  that  I  had 
ceased  to  molest  her  by  the  inquiries,  to  elude  which  she  had 
invented  the  false  statement  of  her  death.  It  seems  probable, 
therefore,  that  she  is  residing  somewhere  in  Paris,  and  in  the 
name  of  Duval.  Of  course  the  burden  of  uncertainty  as  to 
your  future  cannot  be  left  to  oppress  you  for  an  indefinite 
length  of  time.  If  at  the  end,  say,  of  two  )rears,  your  re- 
searches have  wholly  failed,  consider  three-fourths  of  my  whole 
fortune  to  have  passed  to  you,  and  put  by  the  fourth  to  ac- 
cumulate, should  the  child  afterwards  be  discovered,  and  satisfy 
your  judgment  as  to  her  claims  on  me  as  her  father.  Should 
she  not,  it  will  be  a  reserve  fund  for  your  own  children.  But 
oh,  if  my  child  could  be  found  in  time  !  And  oh,  if  she  be  all 
that  could  win  your  heart,  and  be  the  wife  you  would  select 
from  free  choice !  I  can  say  no  more.  Pity  me,  and  judge 
leniently  of  Janet's  husband.  R.  K." 

The  key  to  Graham's  conduct  is  now  given  ;  the  deep  sor- 
row that  took  him  to  the  tomb  of  the  aunt  he  so  revered,  and 
whose  honored  memory  was  subjected  to  so  great  a  risk  ;  the 
slightness  of  change  in  his  expenditure  and  mode  of  life,  after 
an  inheritance  supposed  to  be  so  ample  ;  the  abnegation  of 
his  political  ambition  ;  the  subject  of  his  inquiries,  and  the 
cautious  reserve  imposed  upon  them  ;  above  all,  the  position 
towards  Isaura  in  which  he  was  so  cruelly  placed. 

Certainly,  his  first  thought  in  revolving  the  conditions  of  his 
trust  had  been  that  of  marriage  with  this  lost  child  of  Richard 
King's,  should  she  be  discovered  single,  disengaged,  and  not 
repulsive  to  his  inclination.  Tacitly  he  subscribed  to  the  rea- 
sons for  this  course  alleged  by  the  deceased.  It  was  the  sim- 
plest and  readiest  plan  of  uniting  justice  to  the  rightful  inher- 
itor with  care  for  a  secret  so  important  to  the  honor  of  his 
aunt,  of  Richard  King  himself — his  benefactor — of  the  illustrious 
house  from  which  Lady  Janet  had  sprung.  Perhaps,  too,  the. 
consideration  that  by  this  course  a  fortune  so  useful  to  his  ca- 
reer was  secured,  was  not  without  influence  on  the  mind  of  a 
man  naturally  ambitious.  But  on  that  consideration  he  for- 
bade himself  to  dwell.  He  put  it  away  from  him  as  a  sin.  Yet 
to  marriage  with  any  one  else,  until  his  mission  was  fulfilled, 
and  the  uncertainty  as  to  the  extent  of  his  fortune  was  dis- 
pelled, there  interposed  grave  practical  obstacles.  How  could 
he  honestly  present  himself  to  a  girl  and  to  her  parents  in  the 


THE   PARISIANS.  $9$ 

light  of  a  rich  man,  when  in  reality  he  might  be  but  a  poor 
man  ?  How  could  he  refer  to  any  lawyer  the  conditions  which 
rendered  impossible  any  settlement  that  touched  a  shilling  of 
the  large  sum  which  at  any  day  he  might  have  to  transfer  to 
another  ?  Still,  when  once  fully  conscious  how  deep  was  the 
love  with  which  Isaura  had  inspired  him,  the  idea  of  wedlock 
with  the  daughter  of  Richard  King,  if  she  yet  lived  and  was 
single,  became  inadmissible.  The  orphan  condition  of  the 
young  Italian  smoothed  away  the  obstacles  to  proposals  ot 
marriage  which  would  have  embarrassed  his  addresses  to  girls 
of  his  own  rank,  and  with  parents  who  would  have  demanded 
settlements.  And  if  he  had  found  Isaura  alone  on  that  day  on 
which  he  had  seen  her  last,  he  would  doubtless  have  yielded  to 
the  voice  of  his  heart,  avowed  his  love,  wooed  her  own,  and 
committed  both  to  the  tie  of  betrothal.  We  have  seen  how 
rudely  such  yearnings  of  his  heart  were  repelled  on  that  last 
interview.  His  English  prejudices  were  so  deeply  rooted,  that, 
even  if  he  had  been  wholly  free  from  the  trust  bequeathed  to 
him,  he  would  have  recoiled  from  marriage  with  a  girl  who,  in 
the  ardor  for  notoriety,  could  link  herself  with  such  associates 
as  Gustave  Rameau,  by  habits  a  Bohemian,  and  by  principles  a 
Socialist. 

In  flying  from  Paris,  he  embraced  the  resolve  to  banish  all 
thought  of  wedding  Isaura,  and  to  devote  himself  sternly  to 
the  task  which  had  so  sacred  a  claim  upon  him.  Not  that  he 
could  endure  the  idea  of  marrying  another,  even  if  the  lost 
heiress  should  be  all  that  his  heart  could  have  worshipped,  had 
that  heart  been  his  own  to  give  ;  but  he  was  impatient  of  the 
burden  heaped  on  him  ;  of  the  fortune  which  might  not  be  his, 
of  the  uncertainty  which  paralyzed  all  his  ambitious  schemes 
for  the  future.  • 

Yet,  strive  as  he  would — and  no  man  could  strive  mo:e  reso- 
lutely— he  could  not  succeed  in  banishing  the  image  of  Isaut^i. 
It  was  with  him  always  ;  and  with  it  a  sense  of  irreparable  loss, 
of  a  terrible  void,  of  a  pining  anguish. 

And  the  success  of  his  inquiries  at  Aix-la-Chapelle,  while 
sufficient  to  detain  him  in  the  place,  was  so  slight,  and  ad- 
vanced by  such  slow  degrees,  that  it  furnished  no  continued 
occupation  to  his  restless  mind.  M.  Renard  was  acute  and 
painstaking.  But  it  was  no  easy  matter  to  obtain  any  trace  of 
a  Parisian  visitor  to  so  popular  a  spa  so  many  years  ago.  The 
name  Duval,  too,  was  so  common,  that  at  Aix,  as  we  have  seen 
at  Paris,  time  was  wasted  in  the  chase  of  a  Duval  who  proved 
not  to  be  the  lost  Louise.  At  last  M.  Renard  chanced  on  a  house 


294  THE    PARISIANS. 

in  which,  in  the  year  1849,  two  ladies  from  Paris  had  lodged 
for  three  weeks.  One  was  named  Madame  Duval,  the  other 
Madame  Marigny.  They  were  both  young,  both  very  hand- 
some, and  much  of  the  same  height  and  coloring.  But  Madame 
Marigny  was  the  handsomer  of  the  two.  Madame  Duval  fre- 
quented the  gaming-tablo,s,  and  was  apparently  of  very  lively 
temper.  Madame  Marigny  lived  very  quietly,  rarely  or  never 
stirred  out,  and  seemed  in  delicate  health.  She,  however, 
quitted  the  apartment  somewhat  abruptly,  and,  to  the  best  of  the 
lodging-house  keeper's  recollection,  took  rooms  in  the  country 
ne.|-  Aix — she  could  not  remember  where.  About  two  months 
aft  fr  the  departure  of  Madame  Marigny,  Madame  Duval  also 
left  Aix,  and  in  company  with  a  French  gentleman  who  had 
visited  her  much  of  late — a  handsome  man  of  striking  appear- 
ance. The  lodging-house  keeper  did  not  know  what  or  who  he 
was.  She  remembered  that  he  used  to  be  announced  to  Madame 
Duval  by  the  name  of  M.  Achille.  Madame  Duval  had  never 
been  seen  again  by  the  lodging-house  keeper  after  she  had  left. 
But  Madame  Marigny  she  had  once  seen,  nearly  five  years  after 
she  had  quitted  the  lodgings — seen  her  by  chance  at  the  rail- 
way station,  recognized  her  at  once,  and  accosted  her,  offering 
her  the  old  apartment.  Madame  Marigny  had,  however,  briefly 
replied  that  she  was  only  at  Aix  for  a  few  hours,  and  should 
quit  it  the  same  day. 

The  inquiry  now  turned  towards  Madame  Marigny.  The  date 
on  which  the  lodging-house  keeper  had  last  seen  her  coincided 
with  the  year  in  which  Richard  King  had  met  Louise.  Possi- 
bly, therefore,  she  might  have  accompanied  the  latter  to  Aix  at 
that  time,  and  could,  if  found,  give  information  as  to  her  subse- 
quent history  and  present  whereabouts. 

After  a  tedious  search  throughout  all  the  environs  of  Aix, 
Graham  himself  came,  by  the  merest  accident,  upon  the  vestiges 
of  Louise's  friend.  He  had  been  wandering  alone  in  the  coun- 
try round  Aix,when  a  violent  thunderstorm  drove  him  to  ask  shel- 
ter in  the  house  of  a  small  farmer,  situated  in  a  field,  a  little  off 
the  byway  which  he  had  taken.  While  waiting  for  the  cessation 
of  the  storm,  and  drying  his  clothes  by  the  fire  in  a  room  that 
adjoined  the  kitchen,  he  entered  into  conversation  with  the  far- 
mer's wife,  a  pleasant,  well-mannered  person,  and  made  some 
complimentary  observation  on  a  small  sketch  of  the  house  in 
water-colors  that  hung  upon  the  wall.  "  Ah,"  said  the  farmer's 
wife,  "that  was  done  by  a  French  lady  who  lodged  here  many 
years  ago.  She  drew  very  prettily,  poor  thing." 

"  A  lady  who  lodged  here  many  years  ago — how  many  ? " 


THE    PARISIANS.  295 

"Well,  I  guess  somewhere  about  twenty." 

"  Ah,  indeed  !     Was  it  a  Madame  Marigny  ?  " 

"BonDieu!  That  was  indeed  her  name.  Did  you  know 
her  ?  I  should  be  so  glad  to  hear  she  is  well  and — I  hope — 
happy." 

"  I  do  not  know  where  she  is  now,  and  am  making  inquiries 
to  ascertain.  Pray  help  me.  How  long  did  Madame  Marigny 
lodge  with  you  ?  " 

"  I  think  pretty  well  two  months  ;  yes,  two  months.  She  left 
a  month  after  her  confinement." 

"  She  was  confined  here  ?  " 

"  Yes.  When  she  first  came,  I  had  no  idea  that  she  was  en- 
ciente.  She  had  a  pretty  figure,  and  no  one  would  have  guessed 
it,  in  the  way  she  wore  her  shawl.  Indeed  I  only  began  to  sus- 
pect it  a  few  days  before  it  happened  ;  and  that  was  so  sud- 
denly, that  all  was  happily  over  before  we  could  send  for  the 
accoucheur" 

"  And  the  child  lived  ?     A  girl  or  a  boy  ?  " 

"A  girl — the  prettiest  baby." 

"  Did  she  take  the  child  with  her  when  she  went?  " 

"  No  ;  it  was  put  out  to  nurse  with  a  niece  of  my  husband's 
who  was  confined  about  the  same  time.  Madame  paid  liberally 
in  advance,  and  continued  to  send  money  half-yearly,  till  she 
came  herself  and  took  away  the  little  girl," 

"  When  was  that?  A  little  less  than  five  years  after  she  had 
left  it?" 

"  Why,  you  know  all  about  it,  Monsieur  ;  yes,  not  quite  five 
years  after.  She  did  not  come  to  see  me,  which  I  thought 
unkind,  but  she  sent  me,  through  my  niece-in-law,  a  real  gold 
watch  and  a  shawl.  Poor,  dear  lady — for  lady  she  was  all 
over — with  proud  ways,  and  would  not  bear  to  be  questioned. 
But  I  am  sure  she  was  none  of  your  French  light  ones,  but  an 
honest  wife  like  myself,  although  she  never  said  so." 

"  And  have  you  no  idea  where  she  was  all  the  five  years  she 
was  away,  or  where  she  went  after  reclaiming  her  child  ?  " 

"  No,  indeed,  Monsieur." 

''But  her  remittances  for  the  infant  must  have  been  made  by 
letters,  and  the  letters  would  have  had  post-marks  ?" 

"  Well,  I  dare  say  :  I  am  no  scholar  myself.  But  suppose  you 
see  Marie  Hubert,  that  is  my  niece-in-law,  perhaps  she  has 
kept  the  envelopes." 

%<  Where  does  Madame  Hubert  live  ?  " 

"  It  is  just  a  league  off  by  the  short  path  ;  you  can't  miss  the 
way.  Her  husband  has  a  bit  of  land  of  his  own,  but  he  ii  also 


596  THE   PARISIANS. 

a  carrier — '  Max  Hubert,  carrier,' — written  over  the  door,  just 
opposite  the  first  church  you  get  to.  The  rain  has  ceased,  but 
it  may  be  too  far  for  you  to-day." 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it.     Many  thanks." 

"  But  if  you  find  out  the  dear  lady  and  see  her,  do  tell  her 
how  pleased  I  should  be  to  hear  good  news  of  her  and  the  little 
one." 

Graham  strode  on  under  the  clearing  skies  to  the  house  in- 
dicated. He  found  Madame  Hubert  at  home,  and  ready  to 
answer  all  questions  ;  but,  alas  !  she  had  not  the  envelopes. 
Madame  Marigny,  on  removing  the  child,  had  asked  for  all  the 
envelopes  or  letters,  and  carried  them  away  with  her.  Madame 
Hubert,  who  was  as  little  of  a  scholar  as  her  aunt-in-law  was, 
had  never  paid  much  attention  to  the  postmarks  on  the  envel- 
opes ;  and  the  only  one  that  she  did  remember  was  the  first,  that 
contained  a  banknote,  and  that  postmark  was  "  Vienna." 

"  But  did  not  Madame  Marigny's  letters  ever  give  you  an 
address  to  which  to  write  with  news  of  her  child?" 

"  I  don't  think  she  cared  much  for  her  child,  Monsieur. 
She  kissed  it  very  coldly  when  she  came  to  take  it  away.  I 
told  the  poor  infant  that  that  was  her  own  mamma ;  and 
Madame  said,  '  Yes,  you  may  call  me  maman,'  in  a  tone  of 
voice — well,  not  at  all  like  that  of  a  mother.  She  brought 
with  her  a  little  bag  which  contained  some  fine  clothes  for  the 
child,  and  was  very  impatient  till  the  child  had  got  them  on." 

"  Are  you  quite  sure  it  was  the  same  lady  who  left  the  child  ? " 

"Oh,  there  is  no  doubt  of  that.  She  was  certainly  ires  belle, 
but  I  did  not  fancy-  her  as  aunt  did.  She  carried  her  head 
very  high,  and  looked  rather  scornful.  However,  I  must  say 
she  behaved  very  generously." 

"  Still  you  have  not  answered  my  question  whether  her  let- 
ters contained  no  address." 

"She  never  wrote -more  than  two  letters.  One  enclosing  the 
first  remittance  was  but  a  few  lines,  saying  that  if  the  child 
was  well  and  thriving,  I  need  not  write  ;  but  if  it  died  or 
became  dangerously  il),  I  might  at  any  time  write  a  line  to 

Madame  M ,  Poste  Restante,  Vienna.  'She  was  travelling 

about,  but  the  letter  would  be  sure  to  reach  her  sooner  or 
later.  The  only  other  letter  I  had  was  to  apprise  me  that  she 
was  coming  to  remove  the  child,  and  might  be  expected  in 
three  days  after  the  receipt  of  her  letter. 

"  And  all  the  other  communications  from  her  were  merely 
remittances  in  blank  envelopes?" 

"Exactly  so." 


THE    PARISIANS.   '  297 

Graham,  finding  he  could  learn  no  more,  took  his  departure. 
On  his  way  home,  meditating  the  new  idea  that  his  adventure 
that  day  suggested,  he  resolved  to  proceed  at  once,  accom- 
panied by  M.  Renard,  to  Munich,  and  there  learn  what  par- 
ticulars could  be  yet  ascertained  respecting  those  certificates 
of  the  death  of  Louise  Duvalto  which  (sharing  Richard  King's 
very  natural  belief  that  they  had  been  skilfully  forged)  he  had 
hitherto  attached  no  importance. 


CHAPTER  VII, 

No  satisfactory  result  attended  the  inquiries  made  at 
Munich,  save  indeed  this  certainly — the  certificates  attesting 
the  decease  of  some  person  calling  herself  Louise  Duval  had 
not  been  forged.  They  were  indubitably  genuine.  A  lady 
bearing  that  name  had  arrived  at  one  of  the  principal  hotels 
late  in  the  evening,  and  had  there  taken  handsome  rooms. 
She  was  attended  by  no  servant,  but  accompanied  by  a  gentle- 
man, who,  however,  left  the  hotel  as  soon  as  he  had  seen  her 
lodged  to  her  satisfaction.  The  books  of  the  hotel  still  re- 
tained the  entry  of  her  name — Madame  Duval,  Fran$aise 
rentiere.  On  comparing  the  handwriting  of  this  entry  with  the 
letter  from  Richard  King's  first  wife,  Graham  found  it  differ  ; 
but  then  it  was  not  certain,  though  probable,  that  the  entry 
had  been  written  by  the  alleged  Madame  Duval  herself.  She 
was  visited  the  next  day  by  the  same  gentleman  who  had 
accompanied  her  on  arriving.  He  dined  and  spent  the  even- 
ing with  her.  But  no  one  at  the  hotel  could  remember  what 
was  the  gentleman's  name,  nor  even  if  he  were  announced  by 
any  name.  He  never  called  again.  Two  days  afterwards, 
Madame  Duval  was  taken  ill ;  a  doctor  was  sent  for,  and  at- 
tended her  till  her  death.  This  doctor  was  easily  found.  He 
remembered  the  case  perfectly :  congestion  of  the  lungs, 
apparently  caused  by  cold  caught  on  her  journey.  Fatal 
symptoms  rapidly  manifested  themselves,  and  she  died  on  the 
third  day  from  the  seizure.  She  was  a  young  and  handsome 
woman.  He  had  asked  her  during  her  short  illness  if  he 
should  not  write  to  her  friends  ;  if  there  were  no  one  she 
would  wish  to  be  sent  for.  She  replied  that  there  was  only 
one  friend,  to  whom  she  had  already  written,  and  who  would 
arrive  in  a  day  or  two.  And  on  inquiring,  it  appeared  that  she 
had  written  such  a  letter,  and  taken  it  herself  to  the  post  op 
th<?  morning  of  the  day  she  was  taken  ijl. 


298  THE    PARISIANS. 

She  had  in  her  purse  not  a  large  sura,  but  money  enough  to 
cover  all  her  expenses,  including  those  of  her  funeral,  which, 
according  to  the  law  in  force  at  the  place,  followed  very 
quickly  on  her  decease.  The  arrival  of  the  friend  to  whom 
she  had  written  being  expected,  her  effects  were,  in  the  mean- 
time, sealed  up.  The  day  after  her  death,  a  letter  arrived  for 
her,  which  was  opened.  It  was  evidently  written  by  a  man, 
and  apparently  by  a  lover.  It  expressed  an  impassioned  regret 
that  the  writer  was  unavoidably  prevented  returning  to  Munich 
so  soon  as  he  had  hoped,  but  trusted  to  see  his  dear  bouton  de 
ros3  in  the  course  of  the  following  week  ;  it  was  only  signed 
Achille,  and  gave  no  address.  Two  or  three  days  after,  a  lady, 
also  young  and  handsome,  arrived  at  the  hotel  and  inquired  for 
Madame  Duval.  She  was  greatly  shocked  at  hearing  of  her 
decease.  When  sufficiently  recovered  to  bear  being  questioned 
as  to  Madame  Duval's  relations  and  position,  she  appeared 
confused  ;  said,  after  much  pressing,  that  she  was  no  relation 
to  the  deceased  ;  that  she  believed  Madame  Duval  had  no  re- 
lations with  whom  she  was  on  friendly  terms,  at  least  she  had 
never  heard  her  speak  of  any  ;  and  that  her  own  acquaintance 
with  the  deceased,  though  cordial,  was  very  recent.  She  could 
or  would  not  give  any  clue  to  the  writer  of  the  letter  signed 
Achille,  and  she  herself  quitted  Munich  that  evening,  leaving 
the  impression  that  Madame  Duval  had  been  one  of  those 
ladies  who,  in  adopting  a  course  of  life  at  variance  with  con- 
ventional regulations,  are  repudiated  by  their  relations,  and 
probably  drop  even  their  rightful  names. 

Achille  never  appeared  ;  but  a  few  days  after,  a  lawyer  at 
Munich  received  a  letter  from  another  at  Vienna,  requesting, 
in  compliance  with  a  client's  instructions,  the  formal  certifi- 
cates of  Louise  Duval's  death.  These  were  sent  as  directed, 
and  nothing  more  about  the  ill-fated  woman  was  heard  of. 
After  the  expiration  of  the  time  required  by  la\v-,  the  seals 
were  removed  from  the  -effects,  which  consisted  of  two  malles 
and  a  dressing-case.  But  they  only  contained  the  articles 
appertaining  to  a  lady's  wardrobe  or  toilet.  No  letters — not 
even  another  note  from  Achille — no  clue,  in  short,  to  the  fam- 
ily or  antecedents  of  the  deceased.  What  then  had  become 
of  these  effects,  no  one  at  the  hotel  could  give  a  clear  or  sat- 
isfactory account.  It  was  said  by  the  mistress  of  the  hotel, 
rather  sullenly,  that  they  had,  she  supposed,  been  sold  by  her 
predecessor,  and  by  order  of  the  authorities,  for  the  benefit  of 
the  poor. 

Jf  the  lady  who  had  represented  herself  as  Louise  Puval's, 


THE    PARISIANS.  299 

acquaintance  had  given  her  own  name,  which  doubtless  she 
did,  no  one  recollected  it.  It  was  not  entered  in  the  books  ot 
the  hotel,  for  she  had  not  lodged  there  ;  nor  did  it  appear  that 
she  had  allowed  time  for  formal  examination  by  the  civil  au- 
thorities. In  fact,  it  was  clear  that  poor  Louise  Duval  had 
been  considered  as  an  adventuress  by  the  hotel-keeper  and  the 
medical  attendant  at  Munich  ;  and  her  death  had  excited  so 
little  interest,  that  it  was  strange  that  even  so  many  particulars 
respecting  it  could  be  gleaned. 

After  a  prolonged  but  fruitless  stay  at  Munich,  Graham  and 
M.  Renard  repaired  to  Vienna;  there,  at  least,  Madame  Ma- 
rignyhad  given  an  address,  and  there  she  might  be  heard  of. 

At  Vienna,  however,  no  research  availed  to  discover  a  trace 
of  any  such  person,  and  in  despair  Graham  returned  to  En- 
gland in  the  January  of  1870,  and  left  the  further  prosecution 
of  his  inquiries  to  M.  Renard,  who,  though  obliged  to  transfer 
himself  to  Paris  for  a  time,  promised  that  he  would  leave  no 
stone  upturned  for  the  discovery  of  Madame  Marigny  ;  and 
Graham  trusted  to  that  assurance  when  M.  Renard,  rejecting 
half  of  the  large  gratuity  offered  him,  added,  " Je  suis  Fran$ais  ; 
this  with  me  has  ceased  to  be  an  affair  of  money  ;  it  has  fre- 
come  an  affair  that  involves  my  amour 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

IF  Graham  Vane  had  been  before  caressed  and  courted  for 
himself,  he  was  more  than  ever  appreciated  by  polite  society, 
now  that  he  added  the  positive  repute  of  wealth  to  that  of  a 
promising  intellect.  Fine  ladies  said  that  Graham  Vane  was  a 
match  for  any  girl.  Eminent  politicians  listened  to  him  with 
a  more  attentive  respect,  and  invited  him  to  selecter  dinner- 
parties. His  cousin  the  Duke  urged  him  to  announce  his  can- 
didature for  the  county,  and  purchase  back,  at  least,  the  old 
Stamm-schloss.  But  Graham  obstinately  refused  to  entertain 
either  proposal,  continued  to  live  as  economically  as  before  in 
his  old  apartments,  and  bore  with  an  astonishing  meekness  of 
resignation  the  unsolicited  load  of  fashion  heaped  upon  his 
shoulders.  At  heart  he  was  restless  and  unhappy.  The  mis- 
sion bequeathed  to  him  by  Richard  King  haunted  his  thoughts 
like  a  spectre  not  to  be  exorcised.  Was  his  whole  life  to  be 
passed  in  the  weary  sustainment  of  an  imposture  which  in  itself 
was  gall  and  wormword  to  a  nature  constitutionally  frank  and 
open  ?  Was  he  forever  to  appear  a  rich  man  and  live  as  a 


300  THE    PARISIANS. 

poor  one  ?  Was  he  till  his  deathbed  to  be  deemed  a  sordid 
miser  whenever  he  refused  a  just  claim  on  his  supposed  wealth, 
and  to  feel  his  ambition  excluded  from  the  objects  it  earnestly 
coveted,  and  which  he  was  forced  to  appear  too  much  of  an 
Epicurean  philosopher  to  prize  ? 

More  torturing  than  all  else  to  the  man's  innermost  heart 
was  the  consciousness  that  he  had  not  conquered,  could  not 
conquer,  the  yearning  love  with  which  Isaura  had  inspired 
him,  and  yet-that  against  such  love  all  his  reasonings,  all  his 
prejudices,  more  stubbornly  than  ever  were  combined.  In  the 
French  newspapers  which  he  had  glanced  over  while  en- 
gaged in  his  researches  in  Germany — nay,  in  German  critical 
journals  themselves — he  had  seen  so  many  notices  of  the  young 
author,  highly  eulogistic,  it  is  true,  but  which  to  his  peculiar 
notions  were  more  offensive  than  if  they  had  been  sufficiently 
condemnatory  of  her  work  to  discourage  her  from  its  repeti- 
tion— notices  which  seemed  to  him  the  supreme  impertinences 
which  no  man  likes  exhibited  towards  the  woman  to  whom  he 
would  render  the  chivalrous  homage  of  respect.  Evidently 
this  girl  had  become  as  much  public  property  as  if  she  had 
gone  on  the  stage.  Minute  details  of  her  personal  appearance — 
of  the  dimples  on  her  cheek ;  of  the  whiteness  of  her  arms  ; 
of  her  peculiar  way  of  dressing  her  hair  ;  anecdotes  of  her  from 
childhood  (of  course  invented,  but  how  would  Graham  know 
that  ?)  ;  of  the  reasons  why  she  had  adopted  the  profession  of 
author  instead  of  that  of  the  singer  ;  of  the  sensation  she  had 
created  in  certain  salons  (to  Graham,  who  knew  Paris  so  well, 
salons  in  which  he  would  not  have  liked  his  wife  to  appear)  ; 
of  the  compliments  paid  to  her  by  grands  seigneurs  noted  for 
their  liaisons  with  ballet-dancers,  or  by  authors  whose  genius 
soared  far  beyond  the  flammantia  mxnia  of  a  world  confined 
by  respect  for  one's  neighbor's  landmarks — all  this,  which  be- 
longs to  ground  of  personal  gossip  untou.ched  by  English 
critics  of  female  writers — ground  especially  favored  by  Con- 
tinental, and,  I  am  grieved  to  say,  by  American  journalists — 
all  this  was  to  the  sensitive  Englishman  much  what  the  minute 
inventory  of  Egeria's  charms  would  have  been  to  Numa  Pom- 
pilius.  The  nymph,  hallowed  to  him  by  secret  devotion,  was 
vulgarized  by  the  noisy  hands  of  the  mob,  and  by  the  popular 
voices,  which  said,  "We  know  more  about  Egeria  than  you 
do."  And  when  he  returned  to  England,  and  met  with  old 
friends  familiar  to  Parisian  life,  who  said,  "  Of  course  you  have 
read  the  Cicogna's  roman.  What  do  you  think  of  it  ?  Very 
fine  writing,  I  dare  say,  but  above  me.  I  go  in  for  '  Les  Mys.« 


THE    PARISIANS.  361 

teres  de  Paris  '  or  '  Monte  Christo.'  But  I  even  find  Georges 
Sand  a  bore," — then  as  a  critic  Graham  Vane  fired  up,  ex- 
tolled the  roman  he  would  have  given  his  ears  for  Isaura  never 
to  have  written  ;  but  retired  from  the  contest  muttering  only, 
"  How  can  I— I,  Graham  Vane — how  can  I  be  such  an  idiot — 
how  can  I  in  every  hour  of  the  twenty-four  sigh  to  myself, 
'  What  are  other  women  to  me  ?  Isaura,  Isaura  !  ' ' 


BOOK  VII. 


CHAPTER  I. 

IT  is  the  first  week  in  the  month  of  May,  1870.  Celebrities 
are  of  rapid  growth  in  the  salons  of  Paris.  Gustave  Rameau 
has  gained  the  position  for  which  he  sighed.  The  journal  he 
edits  has  increased  its  hold  on  the  public,  and  his  share  of  the 
profits  has  been  liberally  augmented  by  the  secret  proprietor. 
Rameau  is  acknowledged  as  a  power  in  literary  circles.  And 
as  critics  belonging  to  the  same  clique  praise  each  other  in 
Paris,  whatever  they  may  do  in  communities  more  rigidly  vir- 
tuous, his  poetry  has  been  declared  by  authorities  in  the  press 
to  be  superior  to  that  of  Alfred  de  Mussel  in  vigor,  to  that  of 
Victor  Hugo  in  refinement  ;  neither  of  which  assertions  would 
much,  perhaps,  shock  a  cultivated  understanding." 

It  is  true  that  it  (Gustave's  poetry)  has  not  gained  a  wide 
audience  among  the  public.  But  with  regard  to  poetry  nowa- 
days, there  are  plenty  of  persons  who  say,  as  Dr.  Johnson  said 
of  the  verse  of  Spratt,  "  I  would  rather  praise  it  than  read." 

At  all  events,  Rameau  was  courted  in  gay  and  brilliant  circles, 
and  following  the  general  example  of  French  litterateurs  in 
fashion,  lived  well  up  to  the  income  he  received,  had  a  delight- 
ful bachelor's  apartment,  furnished  with  artistic  effect,  spent 
largely  on  the  adornment  of  his  person,  kept  a  coupe,  and  en- 
tertained profusely  at  the  Cafe  Anglais  and  the  Maison  Doiee. 
A  reputation  that  inspired  a  graver  and  more  unquiet  interest 
had  been  created  by  the  Vicomte  de  Mauleon.  Recent  ar- 
ticles in  the  Sens  Commun,  written  under  the  name  of  Pierre 
Firmin  on  the  discussions  on  the  vexed  question  of  the  plebis- 
cite, had  given  umbrage  to  the  government,  and  Rameau  had 
received  an  intimation  that  he,  as  editor,  was  responsible  for 
the  compositions  of  the  contributors  to  the  journal  he  edited  ; 
and  that  though  so  long  as  Pierre  Firmin  had  kept  his  caustic 


302  THE   PARISIANS. 

spirit  within  proper  bounds,  the  government  had  winked  at 
the  evasion  of  the  law  which  required  every  political  article  in 
a  journal  to  be  signed  by  the  real  name  of  its  author,  it  could 
do  so  no  longer.  Pierre  Firmin  was  apparently  a  nom  deplume  ; 
if  not,  his  identity  must  be  proved,  or  Rameau  would  pay  the 
penalty  which  his  contributor  seemed  bent  on  incurring. 

Rameau,  much  alarmed  for  the  journal  that  might  be  sus- 
pended, and  for  himself  who  might  be  imprisoned,  conveyed 
this  information  through  the  publisher  to  his  correspondent 
Pierre  Firmin,  and  received  the  next  day  an  article  signed 
Victor  de  Mauleon,  in  which  the  writer  proclaimed  himself  to 
be  one  and  the  same  with  Pierre  Firmin,  and,  taking  a  yet 
bolder  tone  than  he  had  before  assumed,  dared  the  government 
to  attempt  legal  measures  against  him.  The  government  was 
prudent  enough  to  disregard  that  haughty  bravado,  but  Victor 
de  Mauleon  rose  at  once  into  political  importance.  He  had  al- 
ready in  his  real  name  and  his  quiet  way  established  a  popular 
and  respectable  place  in  Parisian  society.  But  if  this  revela- 
tion created  him  enemies  whom  he  had  not  before  provoked, 
he  was  now  sufficiently  acquitted,  by  tacit  consent,  of  the  sins 
formerly  laid  to  his  charge,  to  disdain  the  assaults  of  party 
wrath.  His  old  reputation  for  personal  courage  and  skill  in 
sword  and  pistol  served,  indeed,  to  protect  him-  from  such 
charges  as  a  Parisian  journalist  does  not  reply  to  with  his  pen. 
If  he  created  some  enemies,  he  created  many  more  friends,  or 
at  least,  partisans  and  admirers.  He  only  needed  fine  and  im- 
prisonment to  become  a  popular  hero. 

A  few  days  after  he  had  thus  proclaimed  himself  Victor  de 
Mauleon,  who  had  before  kept  aloof  from  Rameau,  and  from 
salons  at  which  he  was  likely  to  meet  that  distinguished  minstrel, 
solicited  his  personal  acquaintance,  and  asked  him  to  breakfast. 

Rameau  joyfully  went.  He  had  a  very  natural  curiosity  to 
see  the  contributor  whose  articles  had  so  mainly  insured  the 
sale  of  the  Sens  Commun. 

In  the  dark-paired,  keen-eyed,  well-dressed,  middle-aged 
man,  with  commanding  port  and  courtly  address,  he  failed  to 
recognize  any  resemblance  to  the  flaxen-wigged,  long-coated, 
bespectacled,  shambling  sexagenarian  whom  he  had  known  as 
Lebeau.  Only  now  and  then  a  tone  of  voice  struck  him  as  fa- 
miliar, but  h'e  could  not  recollect  where  he  had  heard  the  voice 
it  resembled.  The  thought  of  Lebeau  did  not  occur  to  him ; 
if  it  had  occurred  it  would  only  have  struck  him  as  a  chance 
coincidence.  Rameau,  like  most  egotists,  was  rather  a  dull  ob- 
server of  men.  His  genius  was  not  objective. 


THE  PARISIANS.  303 

"  I  trust,  Monsieur  Rameau,"  said  the  Vicomte,  as  he  and  his 
guest  were  seated  at  the  breakfast-table,  "that  you  are  not  dis- 
satisfied with  the  remuneration  your  eminent  services  in  the 
journal  have  received." 

"  The  proprietor,  whoever  he  be,  has  behaved  most  liber- 
ally," answered  Rameau. 

"I  take  that  compliment  to  myself,  cher  confrere;  for 
though  the  expenses  of  starting  the  Sens  Commun,  and  the 
caution  money  lodged,  were  found  by  a  friend  of  mine,  that  was 
a  loan,  which  I  have  long  since  repaid,  and  the  property  in  the 
journal  is  now  exclusively  mine.  I  have  to  thank  you  not  only 
for  your  own  brilliant  contributions,  but  for  those  of  the  col- 
leagues you  secured.  Monsieur  Savarin's  piquant  criticisms 
were  most  valuable  to  us  at  starting.  I  regret  to  have  lost  his 
aid.  But  as  he  has  set  up  a  new  journal  of  his  own,  even  he 
has  not  wit  enough  to  spare  for  another.  Apropos  of  our  con- 
tributors, I  shall  ask  you  to  present  me  to  the  fair  author  of 
'  The  Artist's  Daughter.'  I  am  of  too  prosaic  a  nature  to,  ap- 
preciate justly  the  merits  of  a  roman ;  but  I  have  heard  warm 
praise  of  this  story  from  the  young  ;  they  are  the  best  judges 
of  that  kind  of  literature  ;  and  I  can  at  least  understand  the 
worth  of  a  contributor  who  trebled  the  sale  of  our  journal.  It 
is  a  misfortune  to  us,  indeed,  that  her  work  is  completed,  but 
I  trust  that  the  sum  sent  to  her  through  our  publisher  suffices 
to  tempt  her  to  favor  us  with  another  roman  in  series." 

"  Mademoiselle  Cicogna,"  said  Rameau,  with  a  somewhat 
sharper  intonation  of  his  sharp  voice,  "  Ifas  accepted  for  the 
republication  of  her  roman  in  a  separate  form  terms  which  at- 
test the  worth  of  her  genius,  and  has  had  offers  from  other 
journals  for  a  serial  tale  of  even  higher  amount  than  the  sum 
so  generously  sent  to  her  through  your  publisher." 

"  Has  she  accepted  them,  Monsieur  Rameau  ?  If  so,  tant 
pis  pour  vous.  Pardon  me,  I  mean  that  your  salary  suffers  in 
proportion  as  the  Sens  Commun  declines  in  sale." 

"  She  has  not  accepted  them.  I  advised  her  not  to  do  so, 
until  she  could  compare  them  with  those  offered  by  the  pro- 
prietor of  the  Sens  Commun" 

"And  your  advice  guides  her?  Ah,  cher  confrere,  you  are 
a  happy  man  ! — you  have  influence  over  this  young  aspirant  to 
the  fame  of  a  De  Stael  or  a  Georges  Sand." 

"  I  flatter  myself  that  I  have  some,"  answered  Rameau,  smil- 
ing loftily,  as  he  helped  himself  to  another  tumbler  of  Volnay 
wine — excellent,  but  rather  heady. 

"  So  much  the  better.     I  leave  you  free  to  arrange  terms 


364  THE    PARISIANS. 

with  Mademoiselle  Cicogna,  higher  than  she  can  obtain  else* 
where,  and  kindly  contrive  my  own  personal  introduction  to 
her.  You  have  breakfasted  already  ?  Permit  me  to  offer  you 
a  cigar-;  excuse  me  if  I  do  not  bear  you  company  ;  I  seldom 
smoke — never  of  a  morning.  Now  to  business,  and  the  state  of 
France.  Take  that  easy-chair,  seat  yourself  comfortably. 
So  !  Listen  !  If  ever  Mephistopheles  revisit  the  earth,  how 
he  will  laugh  at  Universal  Suffrage  and  Vote  by  Ballot  in  an 
old  country  like  France,  as  things  to  be  admired  by  edu- 
cated men,  and  adopted  by  friends  of  genuine  freedom  !  " 

"I  don't  understand  you,"  said  Rameau. 

"  In  this  respect,  at  least,  let  me  hope  that  I  can  furnish  you 
with  understanding. 

"  The  Emperor  has  resorted  to  a  plebiscite,  viz.,  a  vote  by 
ballot  and  universal  suffrage,  as  to  certain  popular  changes, 
which  circumstances  compel  him  to  substitute  for  his  former 
personal  rule.  Is  there  a  single  intelligent  Liberal  who  is  not 
against  \\\Zi\.  plebiscite?  Is  there  any  such  who  does  not  know 
that  the  appeal  of  the  Emperor  to  universal  suffrage  and  vote 
by  ballot  must  result  in  a  triumph  over  all  the  variations  of  free 
thought,  by  the  unity  which  belongs  to  Order,  represented 
through  an  able  man  at  the  head  of  the  State  ?  The  multitude 
never  comprehend  principles  ;  principles  are  complex  ideas  ; 
they  comprehend  a  simple  idea,  and  the  simplest  idea  is,  a 
Name  that  rids  their  action  of  all  responsibility  to  thought. 

"  Well,  in  France  there  are  principles  superabundant  which  you 
can  pit  against  the  principle  of  Imperial  rule.  But  there  is  not 
one  name  you  can  pit  against  Napoleon  the  Third  ;  therefore, 
I  steer  our  little  bark  into  the  teeth  of  the  popular  gale  when  I 
denounce  \\\Q  plebiscite,  and  Le  Sens  Commun  will  necessarily  fall 
in  sale — it  is  beginning  to  fall  already.  We  shall  have  the  edu- 
cated men  with  us,  the  rest  against.  In  every  country — even  in 
China,  where  all  are  highly  educated — a  few  must  be  yet  more 
highly  educated  than  the  many.  Monsieur  Rameau,  I  desire 
to  overthrow  the  Empire  ;  in  order  to  do  that,  it  is  not  enough 
to  have  on  my  side  the  educated  men,  I  must  have  the  canaille — 
the  canaille  of  Paris  and  of  the  manufacturing  towns.  But  I 
use  the  canaille  for  my  purpose  ;  I  don't  mean  to  enthrone  it. 
You  comprehend  ?  The  canaille  quiescent  is  simply  mud  at 
the  bottom  of  a  stream  ;  the  canaille  agitated,  is  mud  at  the 
surface.  But  no  man  capable  of  three  ideas  builds  the  palaces 
and  senates  of  civilized  society  out  of  mud,  be  it  at  the  top  or 
the  bottom  of  an  ocean.  Can  either  you  or  I  desire  that  the 
destinies  of  France  shall  be  swayed  by  coxcombical  artisans 


1-HE    PARISIANS.  3&5 

who  think  themselves  superior  to  every  man  who  writes  gram- 
mar, and  whose  idea  of  a  commonwealth  is  the  confiscation  of 
private  property?" 

Rameau,  thoroughly  puzzled  by  this  discourse,  bowed  his 
head,  and  replied  whisperingly  :  "  Proceed.  You  are  against 
the  Empire,  yet  against  the  populace  !  What  are  you  for  ? 
Not,  surely,  the  Legitimists?  Are  you  Republican?  Orlean- 
ist  ?  Or  what  ?  " 

"  Your  questions  are  very  pertinent,"  answered  the  Vicomte 
courteously,  "  and  my  answer  shall  be  very  frank.  lam  against 
absolute  jule,  whether  under  a  Buonaparte  or  a  Bourbon.  I 
am  for  a  free  State,  whether  under  a  constitutional  hereditary 
sovereign  like  the  English  or  Belgian  ;  or  whether,  republican 
in  name,  it  be  less  democratic  than  constitutional  monarchy  in 
practice,  like  the  American.  But  as  a  man  interested  in  the 
fate  of  Le  Sens  Commun,  I  hold  in  profound  disdain  all  crotch- 
ets for  revolutionizing  the  elements  of  Human  Nature.  Enough 
of  this  abstract  talk.  To  the  point.  You  are  of  course 
aware  of  the  violent  meetings  held  by  the  Socialists,  nominally 
against  the  fle'biscite,  really  against  the  Emperor  himself?" 

"  Yes,  I  know  at  least  that  the  working  class  are  extremely 
discontented  ;  the  numerous  strikes  last  month  were  not  on  a 
mere  question  of  wages,  they  were  against  the  existing  forms 
of  society.  And  the  articles  by  Pierre  Firmin  which  brought 
me  into  collision  with  the  government,  seemed  to  differ  from 
what  you  now  say.  They  approve  those  strikes  ;  they  appeared 
to  sympathize  with  the  revolutionary  meetings  at  Belleville  and 
Montmartre." 

"  Of  course — we  use  coarse  tools  for  destroying ;  we  cast 
them  aside  for  finer  ones  when  we  want  to  reconstruct. 

"  I  attended  one  of  those  meetings  last  night.  See,  I  have  a 
pass  for  all  such  assemblies,  signed  by  some  dolt  who  cannot 
even  spell  the  name  he  assumes — '  Pom-de-Tair.'  A  commis- 
sary of  police  sat  yawning  at  the  end  of  the  orchestra,  his  sec- 
retary by  his  side,  while  the  orators  stammer  out  fragments  of 
would-be  thunderbolts.  Commissary  of  police  yawns  more 
wearily  than  before,  secretary  disdains  to  use  his  pen,  seizes  his 
penknife  and  pares  his  nails.  Up  rises  a  wild-haired,  weak- 
limbed  silhouette  of  a  man,  and  affecting  a  solemnity  of  mien 
which  might  have  become  the  virtuous  Guizot,  moves  this  res- 
olution :  '  The  French  people  condemns  Charles  Louis  Napo- 
leon the  Third  to  the  penalty  of  perpetual  hard  labor.'  Then 
up  rises  the  commissary  of  police,  and  says  quietly,  '  I  declare 
this  meeting  at  an  end.' 


306  fHE  PARISIANS. 

"  Sensation  among  the  audience ;  they  gesticulate,  they 
screech,  they  bellow  ;  the  commissary  puts  on  his  great-coat, 
the  secretary  gives  a  last  touch  to  his  nails  and  pockets  his  pen- 
knife, the  audience  disperses,  the  silhouette  of  a  man  effaces 
itself — all  is  over." 

"  You  describe  the  scene-most  wittily,"  said  Rameau,  laugh- 
ing, but  the  laugh  was  constrained.  A  would-be  cynic  himself, 
there  was  a  something  grave  and  earnest  in  the  real  cynic  that 
awed  him. 

"  What  conclusion   do  you  draw   from  such  a  scene,  cher 
poete  ?  "  asked   De    Mauleon,  fixing  his  keen,  quiet   eyes   on 
Rameau. 
,   "  What  conclusion  ?     Welj,  that — that — " 

"  Yes,  continue." 

"  That  the  audience  were  sadly  degenerated  from  the  time 
when  Mirabeau  said  to  a  Master  of  the  Ceremonies,  '  We  are 
here  by  the  power  of  the  French  people,  and  nothing  but  the 
point  of  the  bayonet  shall  expel  us.' " 

"  Spoken  like  a  poet,  a  French  poet.  I  suppose  you  admire 
M.  Victor  Hugo.  Conceding  that  he  would  have  employed  a 
more  sounding  phraseology,  comprising  more  absolute  igno- 
rance of  men,  times,  and  manners  in  unintelligible  metaphor  and 
melodramatic  braggadocio,  your  answer  might  have  been  his ; 
but  pardon  me  if  I  add,  it  would  not  be  that  of  Common  Sense" 

"  Monsieur  le  Vicomte  might  rebuke  me  more  politely,"  said 
Rameau,  coloring  high. 

"  Accept  my  apologies  ;  I  did  not  mean  to  rebuke,  but  to 
instruct.  The  times  are  not  those  of  1789.  And  Nature,  ever 
repeating  herself  in  the  production  of  coxcombs  and  block- 
heads, never  repeats  herself  in  the  production  of  Mirabeaus. 
The  Empire  is  doomed — doomed,  because  it  is  hostile  to  the 
free  play  of  intellect.  Any  government  that  gives  absolute 
preponderance  to  the  many  is  hostile  to  intellect,  for  intellect 
is  necessarily  confined  to  the  few. 

"Intellect  is  the  most  revengeful  of  all  the  elements  of 
society.  It  cares  not  what  the  materials  through  which  it 
insinuates  or  forces  its  way  to  its  seat. 

"  I  accept  the  aid  of  Pom-de-Tair.  I  do  not  demean  myself 
to  the  extent  of  writing  articles  that  may  favor  the  principles 
of  Pom-de-  Tair,  signed  in  the  name  of  Victor  de  Mauleon  or 
of  Pierre  Firmin. 

"I  will  beg  you,  my  dear  editor,  to  obtain  clever,  smart 
writers,  who  know  nothing  about  Socialists  and  Internationalists, 
who  therefore  will  not  commit  Le  Sens  Commun  by  advocat- 


THE    PARISIANS.  307 

ing  the  doctrines  of  those  idiots,  but  who  will  flatter  the  vanity 
of  the  canaille — vaguely  ;  write  any  stuff  they  please  about  the 
renown  of  Paris,  '  the  eye  of  the  world,'  '  the  sun  of  the  Euro- 
pean system,'  etc.,  of  the  artisans  of  Paris  as  supplying  soul  to 
that  eye  and  fuel  to  that  sun — any  blague  of  that  sort — genre 
Victor  Hugo ;  but  nothing  definite  against  life  and  property, 
nothing  that  may  not  be  considered  hereafter  as  the  harmless 
extravagance  of  a  poetic  enthusiasm.  You  might  write  such 
articles  yourself.  In  fine,  I  want  to  excite  the  multitude,  and 
yet  not  to  commit  our  journal  to  the  contempt  of  the  few. 

"  Nothing  is  to  be  admitted  that  may  bring  the  law  upon  us 
except  it  be  signed  by  my  name.  There  may  be  a  moment  in 
which  it  would  be  desirabk^for  somebody  to  be  sent  to  prison  : 
in  that  case,  I  allow  no  substitute,  I  go  myself. 

"Now  you  have  my  most  secret  thoughts.  I  entrust  them  to 
your  judgment  with  entire  confidence.  Monsieur  Lebeau  gave 
you  a  high  character,  which  you  have  hitherto  deserved.  By 
the  way,  have  you  seen  anything  lately  of  that  bourgeois  con- 
spirator ?  " 

"  No,  his  professed  business  of  letter-writer  or  agent  is  trans- 
ferred to  a  clerk,  who  says  M.  Lebeau  is  abroad." 

"Ah  !  I  don't  think  that  is  true.  I  fancy  I  saw  him  the 
other  evening  gliding  along  the  lanes  of  Belleville.  He  is  too 
confirmed  a  conspirator  to  be  long  out  of  Paris  ;  no  place  like 
Paris  for  seething  brains." 

"Have  you  known  M.  Lebeau  long  ?"  asked  Rameau. 

"  Ay,  many  years.  We  are  both  Norman  by  birth,  as  you 
may  perceive  by  something  broad  in  our  accent." 

"Ha!  I  knew  your  voice  was  familiar  to  me  ;  certainly  it 
does  remind  me  of  Lebeau's." 

"  Normans  are  like  each  other  in  many  tilings  besides  voice 
and  accent  ;  obstinacy,  for  instance,  in  clinging  to  ideas  once 
formed  ;  this  makes  them  good  friends  and  steadfast  enemies. 
I  would  advise  no  man  to  make  an  enemy  of  Lebeau. 

"Au  revoir,  cher  confrere.  Do  not  forget  to  present  me  to 
Mademoiselle  Cicogna." 

CHAPTER  II. 

ON  leaving  De  Mauleon  and  regaining  his  coupe",  Rameau 
felt  at  once  bewildered  and  humbled,  for  he  was  not  prepared 
for  the  tone  of  careless  superiority  which  the  Vicomte  as- 
sumed over  him.  He  had  expected  to  be  much  complimented, 
and  he  comprehended  vaguely  that  he  had  been  somewhat 


308  THE    PARISIANS. 

snubbed.  He  was  not  only  irritated,  he  was  bewildered,  for 
De  Mauleon's  political  disquisitions  did  not  leave  any  clear  or 
definite  idea  on  his  mind  as  to  the  principles  which  as  editor 
of  the  Sens  Commun  he  was  to  see  adequately  represented  and 
carried  out.  In  truth,  Rameau  was  one  of  those  numerous 
Parisian  politicians  who  have  read  little  and  reflected  less  on 
the  government  of  men  and  States.  Envy  is  said  by  a  great 
French  writer  to  be  the  vice  of  Democracies.  Envy  certainly 
had  made  Rameau  a  democrat.  He  could  talk  and  write 
glibly  enough  upon  the  themes  of  equality  and  fraternity,  and 
was  so  far  an  ultra-democrat  that  he  thought  'moderation  the 
sign  of  a  mediocre  understanding. 

De  Mauleon's  talk,  therefore,  terribly  perplexed  him.  It 
was  unlike  anything  he  had  heard  before.  Its  revolutionary 
professions,  accompanied  with  so  much  scorn  for  the  multitude 
and  the  things  the  multitude  desired,  were  Greek  to  him.  He 
was  not  shocked  by  the  cynicism  which  placed  wisdom  in 
using  the  passions  of  mankind  as  tools  for  the  interests  of  an 
individual;  but  he  did  not  understand  the  frankness  of  its  avowal. 

Nevertheless  the  man  had  dominated  over  and  subdued 
him.  He  recognized  the  power  of  his  contributor  without 
clearly  analyzing  its  nature — a  power  made  up  of  large  ex- 
perience of  life,  of  cold  examination  of  doctrines  that  heated 
others,  of  patrician  calm,  of  intellectual  sneer,  of  collected 
confidence  in  self. 

Besides,  Rameau  felt,  with  a  nervous  misgiving,  that  in  this 
man,  who  so  boldly  proclaimed  his  contempt  for  the  instru- 
ments he  used,  he  had  found  a  master.  De  Mauleon,  then, 
was  sole  proprietor  of  the  journal  from  which  Rameau  drew 
his  resources  ;  might  at  any  time  dismiss  him  ;  might  at  any 
time  involve  the  journal  in  penalties  which,  even  if  Rameau 
could  escape  in  his  official  capacity  as  editor,  still  might  stop 
the  'Sens  Commun,  and  with  it  Rameau's  luxurious  subsistence. 

Altogether  the  visit  to  De  Mauleon  had  been  anything  but  a 
pleasant  one.  He  sought,  as  the  carriage  rolled  on,  to  turn 
his  thoughts  to  more  agreeable  subjects,  and  the  image  of 
Isaura  rose  before  him.  To  do  him  justice  he  had  learned  to 
love  this  girl  as  well  as  his  nature  would  permit :  he  loved  her 
with  the  whole  strength  of  his  imagination,  and  though  his 
heart  was  somewhat  cold,  his  imagination  was  very  ardent. 
He  loved  her  also  with  the  whole  strength  of  his  vanity,  and 
vanity  was  even  a  more  preponderant  organ  of  his  system  than 
imagination.  To  carry  off  as  his  prize  one  who  had  already 
achieved  celebrity,  whose  beauty  and  fascination  of  manner 


THE    PARISIANS.  309 

were  yet  more  acknowledged  than  her  genius,  would  certainly 
be  a  glorious  triumph. 

Every  Parisian  of  Rameati's  stamp  looks  forward  in  mar- 
riage to  a  brilliant  salon.  What  salon  more  brilliant  than  that 
which  he  and  Isaura  united  could  command  ?  He  had  long 
conquered  his  early  impulse  of  envy  at  Isaura's  success  ;  in 
fact,  that  success  had  become  associated  with  his  own,  and 
had  contributed  greatly  to  his  enrichment/-  So  that  to  other 
motives  of  love  he  might  add  the  prudential  one  of  interest. 
Rameau  well  knew  that  his  own  vein  of  composition,  however 
lauded  by  the  cliques,  and  however  unrivalled  in  his  own  eyes, 
was  not  one  that  brings  much  profit  in  the  market.  He  com- 
pared himself  to  those  poets  who  are  too  far  in  advance  of 
their  time  to  be  quite  as  sure  of  bread  and  cheese  as  they  are 
of  immortal  fame. 

But  he  regarded  Isaura's  genius  as  of.  a  lower  order,  and  a 
thing  in  itself  very  marketable.  Marry  her,  and  the  bread  and 
cheese  was  so  certain  that  he  might  elaborate  as  slowly  as  he 
pleased  the  verses  destined  to  immortal  fame.  Then  he  should 
be  independent  of  inferior  creatures  like  Victor  de  Mauleon. 
But  while  Rameau  convinced  himself  that  he  was  passionately 
in  love  with  Isaura,  he  could  not  satisfy  himself  that  she  was  in 
love  with  him. 

Though  during  the  past  year  they  had  seen  each  other  con- 
stantly, and  their  literary  occupations  had  produced  many 
sympathies  between  them  ;  though  he  had  intimated  that 
many  of  his  most  eloquent  love-poems  were  inspired  by  her  ; 
though  he  had  asserted  in  prose,  very  pretty  prose  too,  that  she 
was  all  that  youthful  poets  dream  of ;  yet  she  had  hitherto 
treated  such  declarations  with  a  playful  laugh,  accepting  them 
as  elegant  compliments  inspired  by  Parisian  gallantry  ;  and  he 
felt  an  angry  and  sore  foreboding  that  if  he  were  to  insist  too 
seriously  on  the  earnestness  of  their  import,  and  ask  her  plainly 
to  be  his  wife,  her  refusal  would  be  certain,  and  his  visits  to 
her  house  might  be  interdicted.  ^/ 

Still  Isaura  was  unmarried  ;  still  she  had  refused  offers  of 
marriage  from  men  higher  placed  than  himself  ;  still  he  divined 
no  one  whom  she  could  prefer.  And  as  he  now  leaned  back  in 
his  coupe  he  muttered  to  himself  :  "  Oh,  if  I  could  but  get  rid 
of  that  little  demon  Julie,  I  would  devote  myself  so  completely 
to  winning  Isaura's  heart  that  I  must  succeed  !  But  how  to 
get  rid  of  Julie  ?  She  so  adores  me,  and  is  so  headstrong  ! 
She  is  capable  of  going  to  Isaura — showing  my  letters — making 
such  a  scene !  " 


310  THE    PARISIANS. 

Here  he  checked  the  carriage  at  a  cafe  on  the  Boulevard, 
descended,  imbibed  two  glasses  of  absinthe,  and  then,  feeling 
much  emboldened,  remounted  his  coupe  and  directed  the 
driver  to  Isaura's  apartment. 


CHAPTER  III. 

YES,  celebrities  are  of  rapid  growth  in  the  salons  of  Paris. 
Far  more  solid  than  that  of  Rameau,  far  more  brilliant  than 
that  of  De  Mauleon,  was  the  celebrity  which  Isaura  had  now 
acquired.  She  had  been  unable  to  retain  the  pretty  suburban 

villa  at  A .  The  owner  wanted  to  alter  and  enlarge  it  for 

his  own  residence,  and  she  had  been  persuaded  by  Signora 
Venosta,  who  was  always  sighing  for  fresh  salons  to  conquer, 
to  remove  (towards  the  close  of  the  previous  year)  to  apart- 
ments in  the  centre  of  the  Parisian  beau  monde.  Without 
formally  professing  to  receive,  on  one  evening  in  the  week  her 
salon  was  open  to  those  who  had  eagerly  sought  her  acquaint- 
ance ;  comprising  many  stars  in  the  world  of  fashion,  as  well 
as  those  in  the  world  of  art  and  letters.  And  as  she  had  now 
wholly  abandoned  the  idea  of  the  profession  for  which  her 
voice  had  been  cultivated,  she  no  longer  shrank  from  the 
exercise  of  her  surpassing  gift  of  song  for  the  delight  of  pri- 
vate friends.  Her  physician  had  withdrawn  the  interdict  on 
such  exercise. 

His  skill,  aided  by  the  rich  vitality  of  her  constitution,  had 
triumphed  over  all  tendencies  to  the  malady  for  which  he  had 
been  consulted.  To  hear  Isaura  Cicogna  sing  in  her  own 
house  was  a  privilege  sought  and  prized  by  many  who  never 
read  a  word  of  her  literary  compositions.  A  good  critic  of  a 
book  is  rare  ;  but  good  judges  of  a  voice  are  numberless.  Add- 
ing this  attraction  of  song  jto  her  youth,  her  beauty,  her  frank 
powers  of  converse,  an  innocent  sweetness  of  manner  free  from 
all  conventional  affectation,  and  to  the  fresh  novelty  of  a  genius 
which  inspired  the  young  witli  enthusiasm  and  beguiled  the 
old  to  indulgence,  it  was  no  wonder  that  Isaura  became  a 
celebrity  at  Paris. 

Perhaps  it  was  a  wonder  that  her  head  was  not  turned  by  the 
adulation  that  surrounded  her.  But  I  believe,  be  it  said  with 
diffidence,  that  a  woman  of  mind  so  superior  that  the  mind 
never  pretends  to  efface  the  heart,  is  less  intoxicated  with  flat- 
tery than  a  man  equally  exposed  to  it. 

It  is.  the  strength  of  her  heart  that  keeps  her  head   sober- 


THE    PARISIANS.  31! 

Isaura  had  never  yet  overcome  her  first  romance  of  love  ;  as 
yet,  amid  all  her  triumphs,  there  was  not  a  day  in  which  her 
thoughts  did  not  wistfully,  mournfully,  flyback  to  those  blessed 
moments  in  which  she  felt  her  cheek  color  before  a  look,  her 
heart  beat  at  the  sound  of  a  footfall.  Perhaps  if  there  had  been 
the  customary  finis  to  this  young  romance — the  lover's  deliber- 
ate renunciation,  his  formal  farewell — the  girl's  pride  would  ere 
this  have  conquered  her  affection, — possibly — who  knows  ? — 
replaced  it. 

But,  reader,  be  you  male  or  female,  have  you  ever  known 
this  sore  trial  of  affection  and  pride,  that  from  some  cause  or 
other,  to  you  mysterious,  the  dear  intercourse  to  which  you  had 
accustomed  the  secret  life  of  your  life  abruptly  ceases  ;  you 
know  that  a  something  has  come  between  you  and  the  beloved 
which  you  cannot  distinguish,  cannot  measure,  cannot  guess, 
and  therefore  cannot  surmount  ;  and  you  say  to  yourself  at  the 
dead  of  solitary  night  :  "  Oh  for  an  explanation  !  Oh,  for  one 
meeting  more  !  All  might  be  so  easily  set  right  ;  or,  if  not,  I 
should  know  the  worst,  and  knowing  it,  could  conquer  !  " 

This  trial  was  Isaura's.  There  had  been  no  explanation,  no 
last  farewell  between  her  and  Graham.  She  divined — no  wom- 
an lightly  makes  a  mistake  there — that  he  loved  her.  She  knew 
that  this  dread  something  had  intervened  between  her  and  him 
when  he  took  leave  of  her  before  others  so  many  months  ago  ; 
that  this  dread  something  still  continued — what  was  it  ?  She 
was  certain  that  it  would  vanish,  could  they  but  once  meet 
again,  and  not  before  others.  Oh,  for  such  a  meeting  ! 

She  could  not  herself  destroy  hope.  She  could  not  marry 
another.  She  would  have  no  heart  to  give  to  another  while  he 
was  free,  while  in  doubt  if  his  heart  was  still  her  own.  And 
thus  her  pride  did  not  help  her  to  conquer  her  affection. 

Of  Graham  Vane  she  heard  occasionally.  He  had  ceased 
to  correspond  with  Savarin  ;  but  among  those  who  most  fre- 
quented her  salon  were  the  Morleys.  Americans  so  well  edu- 
cated and  so  well  placed  as  the  Morleys  knew  something  about 
every  Englishman  of  the  social  station  of  Graham'Vane.  Isaura 
learned  from  them  that  Graham,  after  a  tour  on  the  Continent, 
had  returned  to  England  at  the  commencement  of  the  year, 
had  been  invited  to  stand  for  Parliament,  had  refused,  that  his 
name  was  in  the  list  published  by  the  Morning  Post  of  the  flite 
whose  arrivals  in  London,  or  whose  presence  at  dinner-tables, 
is  recorded  as  an  event.  That  the  Athenaum  had  mentioned  a 
rumor  that  Graham  Vane  was  the  author  of  a  political  pamphlet 
which,  published  anonymously,  had  made  no  inconsiderable 


312  THE    PARISIANS. 

sensation.  Isaura  sent  to  England  for  that  pamphlet :  the  sub- 
ject was  somewhat  dry,  and  the  style,  though  clear  and  vigor- 
ous, was  scarcely  of  the  eloquence  which  wins  the  admiration 
of  women  ;  and  yet  she  learned  every  word  of  it  by  heart. 

We  know  how  little  she  dreamed  that  the  celebrity  which 
she  hailed  as  an  approach  to  him  was  daily  making  her  more 
remote.  The  sweet  labors  she  undertook  for  that  celebrity, 
continued  to  be  sweetened  yet  more  by  secret  association  with 
the  absent  one.  How  many  of  the  passages  most  admired 
could  never  have  been  written  had  he  been  never  known  ! 

And  she  blessed  those  labors  the  more  that  they  upheld  her 
from  the  absolute  feebleness  of  sickened  revery,  beguiled  her 
from  the  gnawing  torture  of  unsatisfied  conjecture.  She  did 
comply  with  Madame  de  Grantmesnil's  command  ;  did  pass 
from  the  dusty,  beaten  road  of  life  into  green  fields  and  along 
flowery  river-banks,  and  did  enjoy  that  ideal  by-world. 

But  still  the  one  image  which  reigned  over  her  human  heart 
moved  beside  her  in  the  gardens  of  fairyland. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

ISAURA  was  seated  in  her  pretty  salon,  with  the  Venosta,  M. 
Savarin,  the  Morleys,  and  the  financier  Louvier,  when  Rameau 
was  announced. 

"  Ha  !  "  cried  Savarin,  "  we  were  just  discussing  a  matter 
which  nearly  concerns  you,  cher  poete.  I  have  not  seen  you 
since  the  announcement  that  Pierre  Firmin  is  no  other  than 
Victor  de  Mauleon.  Ma  foi,  that  worthy  seems  likely  to  be 
as  dangerous  with  his  pen  as  he  was  once  with  his  sword.  The 
article  in  which  he  revealed  himself  makes  a  sharp  lunge  on 
the  government. 

"Take  care  of  yourself.  When  hawks  and  nightingales  fly 
together,  the  hawk  may  escape,  and  the  nightingale  complain  of 
the  barbarity  of  kings,  in  a  cage :  '  flebiliter  gemens  infelix 
avis.'  " 

"  He  is  not  fit  to  conduct  a  journal,"  replied  Rameau  mag- 
niloquently,  "  who  will  not  brave  a  danger  for  his  body  in  de- 
fence of  the  right  to  infinity  for  his  thought." 

"  Bravo  ! "  said  Mrs.  Morley,  clapping  her  pretty  hands. 
"  That  speech  reminds  me  of  home.  The  French  are  very 
much  like  the  Americans  in  their  style  of  oratory." 

"  So,"  said  Louvier,  "  my  old  friend  the  Vicomte  has  come 
put  as  a  writer,  a  politician,  a  philosopher  ;  I  feel  hurt  that  he 


THE   PARISIANS.  313 

kept  this  secret  from  me  despite  our  intimacy.  I  suppose  you 
knew  it  from  the  first,  M.  Rameau  ?  " 

''No,  I  was  as  much  taken  by  surprise  as  the  rest  of  the 
world.  You  have  long  known  M.  de  Mauleon  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  may  say  we  began  life  together — that  is,  much  the 
same  time." 

"What  is  he  like  in  appearance  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Morley. 

"  The  ladies  thought  him  very  handsome  when  he  was  young," 
replied  Louvier.  "  He  is  still  a  fine-looking  man,  about  my 
height." 

"I  should  like  to  know  him,"  cried  Mrs.  Morley,  "  if  only  to 
tease  that  husband  of  mine  !  He  refuses  me  the  dearest  of 
woman's  rights — I  can't  make  him  jealous." 

"  You  may  have  the  opportunity  of  knowing  this  ci-devant 
Lovelace  very  soon,"  said  Rameau,  "  for  he  has  begged  me  to 
present  him  to  Mademoiselle  Cicogna,  and  I  will  ask  her  per- 
mission to  do  so  on  Thursday  evening,  when  she  receives." 

Isaura,  who  had  hitherto  attended  very  listlessly  to  the  con- 
versation, bowed  assent.  "Any  friend  of  yours  will  be  wel- 
come. But  I  own  the  articles  signed  in  the  name  of  Pierre 
Firmin  do  not  prepossess  me  in  favor  of  their  author." 

"  Why  so  ? "  asked  Louvier  ;  "  Surely  you  are  not  an  Im- 
perialist ?" 

"  Nay,  I  do  not  pretend  to  be  a  politician  at  all,  but  there  is 
something  in  the  writing  of  Pierre  Firmin  that  pains  and  chills 
me." 

"Yet  the  secret  of  its  popularity,"  said  Savarin,  "is  that  it 
says  what  every  one  says — only  better." 

"  I  see  now  that  it  is  exactly  that  which  displeases  me  ;  it  is 
the  Paris  talk  condensed  into  epigram  :  the  graver  it  is  the  less 
it  elevates  ;  the  lighter  it  is,  the  more  it  saddens." 

"  This  is  meant  to  hit  me,"  said  Savarin,  with  his  sunny 
laugh — "me,  whom  you  call  cynical." 

"  No,  dear  M.  Savarin  ;  for  above  all  your  cynicism  is  genu- 
ine gayety,  and  below^it  solid  kindness.  You  have  that  which 
I  do  not  find  in  M.  de  Mauleon's  writing,  nor  often  in  the  talk 
of  the  salons — you  have  youthfulness." 

"  Youthfulness  at  sixty — flatterer  !  " 

"  Genius  does  not  count  its  years  by  the  almanac,"  said  Mrs. 
Morley.  "I  know  what  Isaura  means — she  is  quite  right; 
there  is  a  breath  of  winter  in  M.  de  Mauleon's  style,  and  an 
odor  of  fallen  leaves.  Not  that  his  diction  wants  vigor  ;  on 
the  contrary,  it  is  crisp  with  hoar-frost.  But  the  sentiments 
conveyed  by  the  diction  are  those  of  a  nature  sere  and  withered. 


3*4  THE    PARISIANS. 

And  it  is  in  this  combination  of  brisk  words  and  decayed  feel- 
ings that  his  writings  represent  the  talk  and  mind  of  Paris. 
He  and  Paris  are  always  fault-finding  ;  fault-finding  is  the 
attribute  of  old  age." 

Colonel  Morley  looked  round  with  pride,  as  much  as  to  say, 
"Clever  talker,  my  wife." 

Savarin  understood  that  look,  and  replied  to  it  courteously. 
"Madame  has  a  gift  of  expression  which  Emile  de  Girardin 
can  scarcely  surpass.  But  when  she  blames  us  for  fault-find- 
ing, can  she  expect  the  friends  of  liberty  to  praise  the  present 
style  of  things  ?  " 

"  I  should  be  obliged  to  the  friends  of  liberty,"  said  the  Colo- 
nel dryly,  "  to  tell  me  how  that  state  of  things  is  to  be  mended. 
I  find  no  enthusiasm  for  the  Orleanists,  none  for  a  Republic  ; 
people  sneer  at  religion  ;  no  belief  in  a  cause  ;  no  adher- 
ence to  an  opinion.  But  the  worst  of  it  is  that,  likey  all  peo- 
ple who  are  blas/s,  the  Parisians  are  eager  for  strange  excite- 
ment, and  ready  to  listen  to  any  oracle  who  promises  a  relief 
from  indifferentism.  This  it  is  which  makes  the  Press  more 
dangerous  in  France  than  it  is  in  any  other  country.  Else- 
where the  Press  sometimes  leads,  sometimes  follows,  public 
opinion.  Here  there  is  no  public  opinion  to  consult :  and  in- 
stead of  opinion  the  Press  represents  passion." 

"  My  dear  Colonel  Morley,"  said  Savarin,  "  I  hear  you  very 
often  say  that  a  Frenchman  cannot  understand  America.  Per- 
mit me  to  observe  that  an  American  cannot  understand  France — 
or  at  least  Paris.  Apropos  of  Paris,  that  is  a  large  specula- 
tion of  yours,  Louvier,  in  the  new  suburb." 

"  And  a  very  sound  one;  I  advise  you  to  invest  in  it.  I  can 
secure  you  at  present  5  per  cent,  on  the  rental  ;  that  is  noth- 
ing ;  the  houses  will  be  worth  double  when  the  Rue  de  Louvier 
is  completed." 

"  Alas  !  I  have  no  money  ;  my  new  journal  absorbs  all  my 
capital." 

"  Shall  I  transfer  the  money  I  hold  for  you,  Signorina,  and  add 
to  them  whatever  you  may  have  made  by  your  delightful  roman, 
as  yet  lying  idle,  to  this  investment  ?  I  cannot  say  more  in  its 
favor  than  this — I  have  embarked  a  very  large  portion  of  my 
capital  in  the  Rue  de  Louvier,  and  I  flatter  myself  that  I  am 
not  one  of  those  men  who  persuade  their  friends  to  do  a  fool- 
ish thing  by  setting  them  the  example." 

"  Whatever  you  advise  on  such  a  subject,"  said  Isaura 
graciously,  "  is  sure  to  be  as  wise  as  it  is  kind." 

"You  consent,  then  ?" 


THE    PARISIANS.  3^5 

"Certainly." 

Here  the  Venosta,  who  had  been  listening  with  great  atteru 
tion  to  Louvier's  commendation  of  this  investment,  drew  him 
aside,  and  whispered  in  his  ear  :  "  I  suppose,  M.  Louvier,  that 
one  can't  put  a  little  money — a  very  little  money — -poco-poco- 
pocolinO)  into  your  street." 

"  Into  my  street  !  Ah,  I  understand — into  the  speculation 
of  the  Rue  de  Louvier  !  Certainly  you  can.  Arrangements 
are  made  on  purpose  to  suit  the  convenience  of  the  smallest 
capitalists — from  500  francs  upwards." 

"  And  you  feel  quite  sure  that  we  shall  double  our  money 
when  the  street  is  completed — I  should  not  like  to  have  my 
brains  in  my  heels. "! 

"  More  than  double  it,  I  hope,  long  before  the  street  is  com- 
pleted." 

"  I  have  saved  a  little  money — very  little.  I  have  no  rela-. 
tions,  and  I  mean  to  leave  it  all  to  the  Signorina  ;  and  if  it  could 
be  doubled,  why,  there  would  be  twice  as  much  to  leave  her." 

"  So  there  would,"  said  Louvier.  "  You  can't  do  better  than 
put  it  all  into  the  Rue  de  Louvier.  I  will  send  you  the  neces- 
sary papers  to-morrow,  when  I  send  hers  to  the  Signorina." 

Louvier  here  turned  to  address  himself  to  Colonel  Morley, 
but  finding  that  degenerate  son  of  America  indisposed  to  get 
cent,  per  cent,  for  his  money  when  offered  by  a  Parisian,  he 
very  soon  took  his  leave.  The  other  visitors  followed  his  ex- 
ample except  Rameau,  who  was  left  alone  with  the  Venosta 
and  Isaura.  The  former  had  no  liking  for  Rameau,  who  showed 
her  none  of  the  attentions  her  innocent  vanity  demanded,  and 
she  soon  took  herself  off  to  her  own  room  to  calculate  the 
amount  of  her  savings,  and  dream  of  the  Rue  de  Louvier  and 
"  golden  joys." 

Rameau  approaching  his  chair  to  Isaura's  then  commenced 
conversation,  drily  enough,  upon  pecuniary  matters  ;  acquit- 
ting himself  of  the  mission  with  which  De  Mauleon  had  charged 
him,  the  request  for  a  new  work  from  her  peTi  for  the  Sens 
Commun,  and  the  terms  that  ought  to  be  asked  for  compliance. 
The  young  lady  author  shrank  from  this  talk.  Her  private 
income,  though  modest,  sufficed  for  her  wants,  and  she  felt  a 
sensitive  shame  in  the  sale  of  her  thoughts  and  fancies. 

Putting  hurriedly  aside  the  mercantile  aspect  of  the  question, 
she  said  that  she  had  no  other  work  in  her  mind  at  present  ; 
that,  whatever  her  vein  of  invention  might  be,  it  flowed  at  it? 
own  will,  and  could  not  be  commanded. 

*  "  Avere  it  cervello  nella  culcagna  "-—viz.,  to  act  without  prudent  reflection. 


316  THE    PARISIANS. 

"  Nay,"  said  Rameau,  "  this  is  not  true.  We  fancy,  in  vuf 
hours  of  indolence,  that  we  must  wait  for  inspiration  ;  but 
once  force  ourselves  to  work,  and  ideas  spring  forth  at  the 
wave  of  the  pen.  You  may  believe  me  here — I  speak  from 
experience  :  I,  compelled  to  work,  and  in  modes  not  to  my 
taste — I  do  my  task  I  know  not  how.  I  rub  the  lamp,  '  the 
genius  comes.'  " 

"I  have  read  in  some  English  author  that  motive  power  is 
necessary  to  continued  labor :  you  have  motive  power,  I  have 
none." 

"I  do  not  quite  understand  you." 

"  1  mean  that  a  strong  ruling  motive  is  required  to  persist  in 
any  regular  course  of  action  that  needs  effort :  the  motive  with 
the  majority  of  men  is  the  need  of  subsistence  ;  with  a  large 
number  (as  in  trades  or  professions),  not  actually  want,  but  a 
desire  of  gain,  and  perhaps  of  distinction,  in  their  calling  :  the 
desire  of  professional  distinction  expands  into  the  longings  for 
more  comprehensive  fame,  more  exalted  honors,  with  the  few 
who  become  great  writers,  soldiers,  statesmen,  orators." 

"And  do  you  mean  to  say  you  have  no  such  motive?" 

"None  in  the  sting  of  want,  none  in  the  desire  of  gain." 

"But  fame?" 

"  Alas !  I  thought  so  once.  I  know  not  now — I  begin  to 
doubt  if  fame  should  be  sought  by  women."  This  was  said 
very  dejectedly. 

"  Tut,  dearest  Signorina !  What  gadfly  has  stung  you  ? 
Your  doubt  is  a  weakness  unworthy  of  your  intellect ;  and  even 
were  it  not,  genius  is  destiny  and  will  be  obeyed  :  you  must 
write  despite  yourself,  and  your  writing  must  bring  fame, 
whether  you  wish  it  or  not." 

Isaura  was  silent,  her  head  drooped  on  her  breast — there 
were  tears  in  her  downcast  eyes. 

Rameau  took  her  hand,  which  she  yielded  to  him  passively, 
and  clasping  it  jn  both  his  own,  he  rushed  on  impulsively. 

"Oh,  I  know  what  these  misgivings  are  when  we  feel  our- 
selves solitary,  unloved  :  how  often  have  they  been  mine  !  But 
how  different  would  labor  be  if  shared  and  sympathized  with 
by  a  congenial  mind,  by  a  heart  that  beats  in  unison  with  one's 
own  ! " 

Isaura's  breast  heaved  beneath  her  robe,  she  sighed  softly. 

"And  then  how  sweet  the  fame  of  which  the  one  we  love  is 
proud  !  How  trifling  becomes  the  pang  of  some  malignant 
depreciation,  which  a  word  from  the  beloved  one  can  soothe  ! 
O  Signorina!  O  Isaura!  are  we  not  made  for  each  other? 


THE    PARISIANS.  317 

Kindred  pursuits,  hopes,  and  fears  in  common  ;  the  same  race 
to  run,  the  same  goal  to  win  !  I  need  a  motive,  stronger  than 
I  have  yet  known,  for  the  persevering  energy  that  insures  suc- 
cess :  supply  to  me  that  motive.  Let  me  think  that  whatever 
1  win  in  the  strife  of  the  world  is  a  tribute  to  Isaura.  No,  do 
not  seek  to  withdraw  this  hand,  let  me  claim  it  as  mine  for  life. 
1  love  you  as  man  never  loved  before — do  not  reject  my  love." 

They  say  the  woman  who  hesitates  is  lost.  Isaura  hesitated, 
but  was  not  yet  lost.  The  words  she  listened  to  moved  her 
deeply.  Offers  of  marriage  she  had  already  received:  one 
from  a  rich,  middle-aged  noble,  a  devoted  musical  virtuoso  ;  one 
from  a  young  avocat  fresh  from  the  provinces,  and  somewhat 
calculating  on  her  dot ;  one  from  a  timid  but  enthusiastic  ad- 
mirer of  her  genius  and  her  beauty,  himself  rich,  handsome,  of 
good  birth,  but  with  shy  manners  and  faltering  tongue. 

But  these  had  made  their  proposals  with  the  formal  respect 
habitual  to  French  decorum  in  matrimonial  proposals.  Words 
so  eloquently  impassioned  as  Gustave  Rameau's  had  never  be- 
fore thrilled  her  ears.  Yes,  she  was  deeply  moved ;  and  yet, 
by  that  very  emotion  she  knew  that  it  was  not  to  the  love  of 
this  wooer  that  her  heart  responded. 

There  is  a  circumstance  in  the  history  of  courtship  familiar 
to  the  experience  of  many  women,  that  while  the  suitor  is 
pleading  his  cause,  his  language  may  touch  every  fibre  in  the 
heart  of  his  listener,  yet  substitute,  as  it  were,  another  presence 
for  his  own.  She  may  be  saying  to  herself,  "Oh,  that  another 
had  said  those  words  !  "  and  be  dreaming  of  the  other,  while 
she  hears  the  one. 

Thus  it  was  now  with  Isaura,  and  not  till  Rameau's  voice  had 
ceased  did  that  dream  pass  away,  and  with  a  slight  shiver  she 
turned  her  face  towards  the  wooer,  sadly  and  pityingly. 

"It  cannot  be,"  she  said,  in  a  low  whisper":  "  I  were  not 
worthy  of  your  love  could  I  accept  it.  Forget  that  you  have 
so  spoken  ;  let  me  still  be  a  friend  admiring  your  genius,  in- 
terested in  your  career.  I  cannot  be  more.  Forgive  me  if  I 
unconsciously  led  you  to  think  I  could,  I  am  so  grieved  to  pain 
you." 

"  Am  I  to  understand,"  said  Rameau  coldly,  for  his  amour 
propre  was  resentful,  "  that  the  proposals  of  another  have  been 
more  fortunate  than  mine  ?  And  he  named  the  youngest  and 
comeliest  of  those  whom  she  had  rejected. 

"Certainly  not,"  said  Isaura. 

Rameau  rose  and  went  to  the  window,  turning  his  face  from 
her.  In  reality  he  was  striving  to  collect  his  thoughts  and  de- 


318  THE    PARISIANS. 

cide  on  the  course  it  were  most  prudent  for  him  now  to  pursue. 
The  fumes  of  the  absinthe  which  had,  despite  his  previous  fore- 
bodings, emboldened  him  to  hazard  his  avowal,  had  now  sub- 
sided into  the  languid  reaction  which  is  generally  consequent 
on  that  treacherous  stimulus,  a  reaction  not  unfavorable  to 
passionless  reflection.  He  knew  that  if  he  said  he  could  not  con- 
quer his  love,  he  would  still  cling  to  hope,  and  trust  to  persever- 
ance and  time,  he  should  compel  Isaura  to  forbid  his  visits,  and 
break  off  their  familiar  intercourse.  This  would  be  fatal  to  the 
chance  of  yet  winning  her,  and  would  also  be  of  serious  dis- 
advantage to  his  more  worldly  interests.  Her  literary  aid 
might  become  essential  to  the  journal  on  which  his  fortunes 
depended  ;  and  at  all  events,  in  her  conversation,  in  her 
encouragement,  in  her  sympathy  with  the  pains  and  joys  of  his 
career,  he  felt  a  support,  a  comfort,  nay,  an  inspiration.  For 
the  spontaneous  gush  of  her  fresh  thoughts  and  fancies  served 
to  recruit  his  own  jaded  ideas,  and  enlarge  his  own  stinted 
range  of  invention.  No,  he  could  not  commit  himself  to  the 
risk  of  banishment  from  Isaura. 

And  mingled  with  meaner  motives  for  discretion,  there  was 
one  of  which  he  was  but  vaguely  conscious,  purer  and  nobler. 
In  the  society  of  this  girl,  in  whom  whatever  was  strong  and 
high  in  mental  organization  became  so  sweetened  into  feminine 
grace  by  gentleness  of  temper  and  kindliness  of  disposition, 
Rameau  felt  himself  a  better  man.  The  virgin-like  dignity 
with  which  she  moved,  so  untainted  by  a  breath  of  scandal, 
amid  salons  in  which  the  envy  of  virtues  doubted  sought  to 
bring  innocence  itself  into  doubt,  warmed  into  a  genuine  rever- 
ence the  cynicism  of  his  professed  creed. 

While  with  her,  while  under  her  chastening  influence,  he  was 
sensible  of  a  poetry  infused  within  him  far  more  true  to  the 
Camcenae  than  all  he  had  elaborated  into  verse.  In  these 
moments  he  was  ashamed  of  the  vices  he  had  courted  as  dis- 
tractions. He  imagined  that,  with  her  all  his  own,  it  would  be 
easy  to  reform. 

No  ;  to  withdraw  wholly  from  Isaura  was  to  renounce  his 
sole  chance  of  redemption. 

While  these  thoughts,  which  it  takes  so  long  to  detail,  passed 
rapidly  through  his  brain,  he  felt  a  soft  touch  on  his  arm,  and, 
turning  his  face  slowly,  encountered  the  tender,  compassionate 
eyes  of  Isaura. 

"  Be  consoled,  dear  friend,"  she  said,  with  a  smile,  half 
cheering,  half  mournful.  "  Perhaps  for  all  true  artists  the 
solitary  lot  is  the  best." 


THE    PARISIANS.  319 

"I  will  try  to  think  so,"  answered  Rameau  ;  "and  mean- 
while I  thank  you  with  a  full  heart  for  the  sweetness  with 
which  you  have  checked  my  presumption — the  presumption 
shall  not  be  repeated.  Gratefully  I  accept  the  friendship  you 
deign  to  tender  me.  You  bid  me  forget  the  words  I  uttered. 
Promise  in  turn  \\\a.t  you  will  forget  them — or  at  least  .consider 
them  withdrawn.  You  will  receive  me  still  as  a  friend  ?  " 

"  As  friend,  surely  ;  yes.  Do  we  not  both  need  friends  ?  " 
She  held  out  her  hand  as  she  spoke  ;  he  bent  over  it,  kissed  it 
with  rer.pect,  and  the  interview  thus  closed. 


CHAPTER  V. 

IT  was  late  in  the  evening  of  that  day  when  a  man  who  had 
the  appearance  of  a  decent  bourgeois,  in  the  lower  grades  of  that 
comprehensive  class,  entered  one  of  the  streets  in  the  Fau- 
bourg Moatmartre,'tenaTited  chiefly  by  artisans.  He  paused  at 
the  cper,  doorway  of  a  tall,  narrow  house,  and  drew  back  as 
he  heard  footsteps  descending  a  very  gloomy  staircase. 

The  light  from  a  gas-lamp  on  the  street  fell  full  on  the  face 
of  the  person  thus  quitting  the  house — the  face  of  a  young  and 
handsome  man,  dressed  with  the  quiet  elegance  which  be- 
tokened one  of  higher  rank  or  fashion  than  that  neighborhood 
was  habituated  to  find  among  its  visitors.  The  first  comer  re- 
treated promptly  into  the  shade,  and,  as  by  sudden  impulse, 
drew  his  hat  low  down  over  his  eyes. 

Th<.>  other  man  did  not,  however,  observe  him,  went  his  way 
with  quick  step  along  the  street,  and  entered  another  house 
some  yards  distant. 

"  What  can  that  pious  Bourbonite  do  here  ? "  muttered  the 
first  comer.  "Can  he  be  a  conspirator?  Diable !  'tis  as  dark 
as  Erebus  on  that  staircase." 

Taking  cautious  hold  of  the  banister,  the  man  now  ascended 
the  stairs.  On  the  landing  of  the  first  floor  there  was  a  gas- 
lamp  which  threw  upward  a  faint  ray  that  finally  died  at  the 
third  story.  But  at  that  third  story  the  man's  journey  ended  ; 
he  pulled  a  bell  at  the  door  to  the  right,  and  in  another  mo- 
ment or  so  the  door  was  opened  by  a  young  woman  of  twenty- 
eight  or  thirty,  dressed  very  simply,  but  with  a  certain  neat- 
ness not  often  seen  in  the  wives  of  artisans  in  the  Faubourg 
Montmartre.  Her  face,which,  though  pale  and  delicate,  retained 
much  of  the  beauty  of  youth,  became  clouded  as  she  recognized 
the  visitor  ;  evidently  the  visit  was  not  welcome  to  her. 


320  THE'   PARISIANS. 

"  Monsieur  Lebeau  again  !  "  she  exclaimed,  shrinking  back. 

"At  your  service,  chtre  dame.  The  goodman  is  of  course  at 
home?  Ah,  I  catch  sight  of  him,"  and  sliding  by  the  woman, 
M.  Lebeau  passed  the  narrow  lobby  in  which  she  stood, 
through  the  open  door  conducting  into  the  room  in  which  Ar- 
niand  Monnier  was  seated,  his  chin  propped  on  his  hand,  his 
elbow  resting  on  a  table,  looking  abstractedly  into  space.  In 
a  corner  of  the  room  two  small  children  were  playing  languidly 
with  a  set  of  bone  tablets,  inscribed  with  the  letters  of  the 
alphabet.  But  whatever  the  children  were  doing  with  the 
alphabet,  they  were  certainly  not  learning  to  read  from  it. 

The  room  was  of  fair  size  and  height,  and  by  no  means 
barely  or  shabbily  furnished.  There  was  a  pretty  clock  on  the 
mantelpiece.  On  the  wall  were  hung  designs  for  the  decora- 
tion of  apartments,  and  shelves  on  which  were  ranged  a  few 
books. 

The  window  was  open,  and  on  the  sill  were  placed  flower- 
pots ;  you  could  scent  the  odor  they  wafted  into  the  roo'n. 

Altogether  it  was  an  apartment  suited  to  a  skilled  artisan 
earning  high  wages.  From  the  room  we  are  now  in  branched 
on  one  side  a  small  but  commodious  kitchen  ;  on  the  other 
side,  on  which  the  door  was  screened  by  a  portiere,  with  a 
border  prettily  worked  by  female  hands — some  years  ago,  for 
it  was  faded  now — was  a  bedroom,  communicating  with  one 
of  less  size  in  which  the  children  slept.  We  do  not  enter  these 
additional  rooms,  but  it  may  be  well  here  to  mention  them  as 
indications  of  the  comfortable  state  of  an  intelligent  skilled 
artisan  of  Paris,  who  thinks  he  can  better  that  state  by  some 
revolution  which  may  ruin  his  employer. 

Monnier  started  up  at  the  entrance  of  Lebeau,  and  his  face 
showed  that  he  did  not  share  the  dislike  to  the  visit  which  that 
of  the  female  partner  of  his  life  had  evinced.  On  the  con- 
trary, his  smile  was  cordial,  and  there  was  a  hearty  ring  in  the 
voice  which  cried  out : 

"  I  am  glad  to  see  you — something  to  do  ?     Eh  ?  " 

"  Always  ready  to  work  for  liberty,  mon  brave." 

"  I  hope  so  :    What's  in  the  wind  now  ?" 

"O  Armand,  be  prudent — be  prudent  !  "  cried  the  woman 
piteously.  "Do  not  lead  him  into  further  mischief,  Monsieur 
Lebeau":  as  she  faltered  forth  the  last  words,  she  bowed  her 
head  over  the  two  little  ones,  and  her  voice  died  in  sobs. 

"  Monnier,"  said  Lebeau  gravely,  "  Madame  is  right.  I 
ought  not  to  lead  you  into  further  mischief  ;  there  are  three  in 
the  room  who  have  better  claims  on  you  than —  " 


THE    PARISIANS.  32! 

"  The  cause  of  the  millions,"  interrupted  Monnier. 

"  No." 

He  approached  the  woman  and  took  up  one  of  the  children 
very  tenderly,  stroking  back  its  curls  and  kissing  the  face, 
which,  if  before  surprised  and  saddened  by  the  mother's  sob, 
now  smiled  gayly  under  the  father's  kiss. 

"  Canst  thou  doubt,  my  Heloise,"  said  the  artisan  mildly, 
"  that  whatever  I  do  thou  and  these  are  not  uppermost  in  my 
thoughts  ?  I  act  for  thine  interest  and  theirs — the  world  as  it 
exists  is  the  foe  of  you  three.  The  world  I  will  replace  it  by 
will  be  more  friendly." 

The  poor  woman  made  no  reply,  but  as  he  drew  her  towards 
him,  she  leant  her  head  upon  his  breast  and  wept  quietly. 
Monnier  led  her  thus  from  the  room  whispering  words  of  sooth- 
ing. The  children  followed  the  parents  into  the  adjoining 
chamber.  In  a  few  minutes  Monnier  returned,  shutting  the 
door  behind  him,  and  drawing  the  portiere  close. 

"  You  will  excuse  me,  Citizen,  and  my  poor  wife — wife  she 
is  to  me  and  to  all  who  visit  here,  though  the  law  says  she  is 
not." 

"  I  respect  Madame  the  more  for  her  dislike  to  myself,"  said 
Lebeau,  with  a  somewhat  melancholy  smile. 

"  Not  dislike  to  you  personally,  Citizen,  but  dislike  to  the 
business  which  she  connects  with  your  visits,  and  she  is  more 
than  usually  agitated  on  that  subject  this  evening,  because, 
just  before  you  came,  another  visitor  had  produced  a  great 
effect  on  her  feelings — poor  dear  Heloise." 

"Indeed!     How?" 

"  Well,  I  was  employed  in  the  winter  in  redecorating  the 
salon  and  boudoir  of  Madame  de  Vandemar ;  her  son,  M. 
Raoul,  took  great  interest  in  superintending  the  details.  He 
would  sometimes  talk  to  me  very  civilly,  not  only  on  my  work, 
but  on  other  matters.  It  seems  that  Madame  now  wants 
something  done  to  the  salle-a-manger,  and  asked  old  Gerard — 
my  late  master,  you  know — to  send  me.  Of  course  he  said 
that  was  impossible  ;  for,  though  I  was  satisfied  with  my  own 
wages,  I  had  induced  his  other  men  to  strike,  and  was  one  of 
the  ringleaders  in  the  recent  strike  of  artisans  in  general — a 
dangerous  man,  and  he  would  have  nothing  more  to  do  with 
me.  So  M.  Raoul  came  to  see  and  talk  with  me — scarce  gone 
before  you  rang  at  the  bell ;  you  might  almost  have  met  him  on 
the  stairs." 

"  I  saw  a  beau  monsieur  come  out  of  the  house.  And  so  his 
talk  has  affected  Madame/' 


322  THE    PARISIANS. 

\ 

"  Very  much  ;  it  was  quite  brother-like.  He  is  one  of  the 
religious  set,  and  they  always  get  at  the  weak -side  of  the  soft 
sex." 

"  Ay,"  said  Lebcau  thoughtfully  ;  "  if  religion  were  banished 
from  the  laws  of  men,  it  would  still  find  a  refuge  in  the  hearts 
of  women.  But  Raoul  de  Vandemar  did  not  presume  to  preach 
to  Madame  upon  the  sin  of  loving  you  and  your  children  ?" 

"I  should  like  to  have  heard  him  preach  to  her,"  cried 
Monnier  fiercely.  "  No,  he  only  tried  to  reason  with  me 
about  matters  he  could  not  understand." 

"Strikes?" 

"Well,  not  exactly  strikes;  he  did  not  contend  that  we 
workmen  had  not  full  right  to  combine  and  to  strike  for  obtain- 
ing fairer  money's  worth  for  our  work  ;  but  he  tried  to  per- 
suade me  that  where,  as  in  my  case,  it  was  not  a  matter  of 
wages,  but  of  political  principle,  of  war  against  capitalists,  I 
could  but  injure  myself  and  mislead  others.  He  wanted  to 
reconcile  me  to  old  Gerard,  or  to  let  him  find  me  employment 
elsewhere  ;  and  when  I  told  him  that  my  honor  forbade  me  to 
make  terms  for  myself  till  those  with  whom  I  was  joined  were 
satisfied,  he  said,  '  But  if  this  lasts  much  longer  your  children 
will  not  look  so  rosy';  then  poor  Heloise  began  to  wring  her 
hands  and  cry,  and  he  took  me  aside  and  wanted  to  press 
money  on  me  as  a  loan.  He  spoke  so  kindly  that  I  could  not 
be  angry  ;  but  when  he  found  I  would  take  nothing,  he  asked 
me  about  some  families  in  the  street  of  whom  he  had  a  list, 
and  who,  he  was  informed,  were  in  great  distress.  That  is  true  ; 
I  am  feeding  some  "of  them  myself  out  of  my  savings.  You 
see,  this  young  Monsieur  belongs  to  a  society  of  men,  many  as 
young  as  he  is,  which  visits  the  poor  and  dispenses  charity. 
I  did  not  feel  I  had  a  right  to  refuse  aid  for  others,  and  I  told 
him  where  his  money  would  be  best  spent.  I  suppose  he  went 
there  when  he  left  me." 

"  I  know  the  society  you  mean,  that  of  St.  Franfois  de  Sales. 
It  comprises  some  of  the  most  ancient  of  that  old  noblesse,  to 
which  the  ouvriers  in  the  great  Revolution  were  so  remorse- 
less." 

"We  ouvriers  are  wiser  now  ;  we  see  that  in  assailing  t/iem, 
we  gave  ourselves  worse  tyrants  in  the  new  aristocracy  of  the 
capitalists.  Our  quarrel  now  is  that  of  artisans  against  em- 
ployers." 

"  Of  course,  I  am  aware  of  that ;  but  to  leave  general  pol" 
itics,  tell  me  frankly,  How  has  the  strike  affected  you  as  yet  ? 
I  mean  in  purse.  Can  you  stand  its  pressure  ?  If  not,  you  are 


THE    PARISIANS.  323 

above  the  false  pride  of  not  taking  help  from  me,  a  fellow- 
conspirator,  though  you  were  justified  in  refusing  it  when  of- 
fered by  Raoul  de  Vandemar,  the  servant  of  the  Church." 

"  Pardon,  I  refuse  aid  from  any  one,  except  for  the  common 
cause.  But  do  not  fear  for  me,  I  ani  not  pinched  as  yet.  I 
have  had  high  wages  for  some  years,  and  since  I  and  Heloise 
came  together,  I  have  not  wasted  a  sou  out  of  doors,  except  in 
the  way  of  public  duty,  such  as  making  converts  at  the  Jean 
Jacques  and  elsewhere  ;  a  glass  of  beer  and  a  pipe  don't  cost 
much.  And  Heloise  is  such  a  housewife,  so  thrifty,  scolds  me 
if  I  buy  her  a  ribbon,  poor  love  !  No  wonder  that  I  would 
pull  down  a  society  that  dares  to  scoff  at  her — dares  to  say 
she  is  not  my  wife,  and  her  children  are  base-born.  No,  I 
have  some  savings  left  yet.  War  to  society,  war  to  the  knife  !  " 

"Monmer,"  said  Lebeau,  in  a  voice  that  evinced  emotion, 
''listen  to  me  :  I  have  received  injuries  from  society  which, 
when  they  were  fresh,  half-maddened  me — that  is  twenty 
years  ago.  I  would  then  have  thrown  myself  into  any  plot 
against  society  that  proffered  revenge  ;  but  society,  my  friend, 
is  a  wall  of  very  strong  masonry,  as  it  now  stands ;  it  may  be 
sapped  in  the  course  of  a  thousand  years,  but  stormed  in  a 
day — no.  You  dash  your  head  against  it — you  scatter  your 
brains,  and  you  dislodge  a  stone.  Society  smiles  in  scorn, 
effaces  the  stain,  and  replaces  the  stone.  I  no  longer  war 
against  society.  I  do  war  against  a  system  in  that  society 
which  is  hostile  to  me — systems  in  France  are  easily  overthrown. 
I  say  this  because  I  want  to  use  you,  and  I  do  not  want  to  de- 
ceive." 

"  Deceive  me,  bah  !  You  are  an  honest  man,"  cried  Mon- 
nier ;  and  he  seized  Lebeau's  hand,  and  shook  it  with  warmth 
and  vigor.  "  But  for  you  I  should  have  been  a  mere  grumbler. 
No  doubt  I  should  have  cried  out  where  the  shoe  pinched, 
and  railed  against  laws  that  vex  me  ;  but  from  the  moment 
you  first  talked  to  me  I  became  a  new  man.  You  taught  me 
to  act,  as  Rousseau  and  Madame  de  Grantmesnil  had  taught 
me  to  think  and  to  feel.  There  is  my  brother,  a  grumbler,  too, 
but  professes  to  have  a  wiser  head  than  mine.  Pie  is  always 
warning  me  against  you;  against  joining  a  strike;  against 
doing  anything  to  endanger  my  skin.  I  always  went  by  his 
advice  till  you  taught  me  that  it  was  well  enough  for  women  to 
talk  and  complain  ;  men  should  dare  and  do." 

"  Nevertheless,"  said  Lebeau,  "  your  brother  is  a  safer 
councillor  to  a.ptre  de  famille  than  I.  I  repeat  what  I  have  so 
often  said  before  :  I  desire  and  I  resolve,  that  the  Empire  of 


324  THE    PARISIANS. 

M.  Bonaparte  shall  be  overthrown.  I  see  many  concurrent 
circumstances  to  render  that  desire  and  resolve  of  practicable 
fulfilment.  You  desire  and  resolve  the  same  thing.  Up  to 
that  point  we  can  work  together.  I  have  encouraged  your 
action  only  so  far  as  it  served  my  design  ;  but  I  separate  from 
you  the  moment  you  would  ask  me  to  aid  your  design  in  the 
hazard  of  experiments  which  the  world  has  never  yet  favored, 
and  trust  me,  Monnier,  the  world  never  will  favor." 

"  That  remains  to  be  seen,"  said  Monnier,  with  compressed, 
obstinate  lips.  "  Forgive  me,  but  you  are  not  young  ;  you  be- 
long to  an  old  school." 

"Poor  young  man  !  "  said  Lebeau,  readjusting  his  spectacles, 
"I  recognize  in  you  the  genius  of  Paris,  be  the  genius  good  or 
evil.  Paris  is  never  warned  by  experience.  Be  it  so.  I  want 
you  so  much,  your  enthusiasm  is  so  fiery,  that  I  can  concede  no 
more  to  the  mere  sentiment  which  makes  me  say  to  myself, 
'  It  is  a  shame  to  use  this  great-hearted,  wrong-headed  creature 
for  my  personal  ends.'  1  come  at  once  to  the  point — that  is, 
the  matter  on  which  I  seek  you  this  evening.  At  my  sugges- 
tion, you  have  been  a  ringleader  in  strikes  which  have  terribly 
shaken  the  Imperial  system,  more  than  its  Ministers  deem  ; 
now  I  want  a  man  like  you  to  assist  in  a  bold  demonstration 
against  the  Imperial  resort  to  a  rural  priest-ridden  suffrage,  on 
the  part  of  the  enlightened  working  class  of  Paris." 

"Good  !  "  said  Monnier. 

"  In  a  day  or  two  the  result  of  the  plebiscite  will  be  known. 
The  result  of  universal  suffrage  will  be  enormously  in  favor  of 
the  desire  expressed  by  one  man." 

"I  don't  believe  it,"  said  Monnier  stoutly.  "France  can- 
not be  so  hoodwinked  by  the  priests." 

"  Take  what  I  say  for  granted,"  resumed  Lebeau  calmly. 
"  On  the  8th  of  this  month  we  shall  know  the  amount  of  the 
majority — some  millions  of  French  votes.  I  want  Paris  to 
separate  itself  from  France,  and  declare  against  those  blunder- 
ing millions.  I  want  an  e'meute,  or  rather  a  menacing  ddmon- 
stration,  not  a  premature  revolution,  mind.  You  must  avoid 
bloodshed." 

"  It  is  easy  to  say  that  beforehand  ;  but  when  a  crowd  of 
men  once  meets  in  the  streets  of  Paris — " 

"It  can  do  much  by  meeting,  and  cherishing  resentment  if 
the  meeting  be  dispersed  by  an  armed  force,  which  it  would 
be  waste  of  life  to  resist." 

"We  shall  see  when  the  time  comes,"  said  Monnier,  with  a 
fierce  gleam  in  his  bold  eyes. 


THE    PARISIANS.  325 

"  I  tell  you,  all  that  is  required  at  this  moment  is  an  evidenv 
protest  of  the  artisans  of  Paris  against  the  votes  of  the  '  rurals' 
of  France.  Do  you  comprehend  me?" 

"  I  think  so  ;  if  not,  I  obey.  What  we  ouvriers  want  is  what 
we  have  not  got — a  head  to  dictate  action  to  us." 

"See  to  this,  then.  Rouse  the  men  you  can  command.  I 
will  take  care  that  you  have  plentiful  aid  from  foreigners.  We 
may  trust  to  the  confreres  of  our  council  to  enlist  Poles  and 
Italians  ;  Gaspard  le  Noy  will  turn  out  the  volunteer  rioters  at 
his  command.  Let  the  emeute  be  within,  say  a  week,  after  the 
vote  of  the  plebiscite  is  taken.  You  will  need  that  time  to 
prepare." 

"  Be  contented — it  shall  be  done." 

"  Good-night,  then."  Lebeau  leisurely  took  up  his  hat  and 
drew  on  his  gloves,  then,  as  if  struck  by  a  sudden  thought,  he 
turned  briskly  on  the  artisan,  and  said  in  quick,  blunt  tones: 

"  Armand  Monnier,  explain  to  me  why  it  is  that  you,  a 
Parisian  artisan,  the  type  of  a  class  the  most  insubordinate, 
the  most  self-conceited,  that  exists  on  the  face  of  earth,  take 
without  question,  with  so  docile  a  submission,  the  orders  of  a 
man  who  plainly  tells  you  he  does  not  sympathize  in  your  ulti- 
mate objects,  of  whom  you  really  know  very  little,  and  whose 
views  you  candidly  own  you  think  are  those  of  an  old  and  ob- 
solete school  of  political  reasoners." 

"You  puzzle  me  to  explain,"  said  Monnier,  with  an  ingenuous 
laugh,  that  brightened  up  features  stern  and  hard,  though 
comely  when  in  repose.  "  Partly,  because  you  are  so  straight- 
forward, and  do  not  talk  blague;  partly,  because  I  don't  think 
the  class  I  belong  to  would  stir  an  inch  unless  we  had  a  leader 
of  another  class,  and  you  give  me  at  least  that  leader.  Again, 
you  go  to  that  first  stage  which  we  all  agree  to  take,  and — well, 
do  you  want  me  to  explain  more?  " 

"  YesT" 

"Eh  bicn!  you  have  warned  me  like  an  honest  man  ;  like 
an  honest  man  I  warn  you.  That  first  step  we  take  together  ; 
I  want  to  go  a  step  further;  you  retreat,  you  say 'No':  I 
reply  you  are  committed  ;  that  further  step  you  must  take,  or 
I  cry  '  Traitre  ! — a  la  lanterne ! '  You  talk  of  '  superior  experi- 
ence': bah!  what  does  experience  really  tell  you  ?  Do  you 
suppose  that  Philippe  Egalite",  when  he  began  to  plot  against 
Louis  XVI.,  meant  to  vote  for  his  kinsman's  execution  by  the 
guillotine?  Do  you  suppose  that  Robespierre,  when  he  com- 
menced his  career  as  the  foe  of  capital  punishment,  foresaw 
that  he  should  be  the  Minister  of  the  Reign  of  Terror  ?  Not  a 


326  THE    PARISIANS. 

bit  of  it.  Each  was  committed  by  his  use  of  those  he  designed 
for  his  tools  :  so  must  you  be — or  you  perish." 

Lebeau,  leaning  against  the  door,  heard  the  frank  avowal  he 
had  courted  without  betraying  a  change  of  countenance.  But 
when  Armand  Monnier  had  done,  a  slight  movement  of  his  lips 
showed  emotion  ;  was  it  of  fear  or  disdain  ? 

"  Monnier,"  he  said  gently  ;  "  I  am  so  much  obliged  to  you 
for  the  manly  speech  you  have  made.  The  scruples  which  my 
conscience  had  before  entertained  are  dispelled.  I  dreaded 
lest  I,  a  declared  wolf,  might  seduce  into  peril  an  innocent 
sheep.  I  see  I  have  to  deal  with  a  wolf  of  younger  vigor  and 
sharper  fangs  than  myself — so  much  the  better :  obey  my 
orders  now  ;  leave  it  to  time  to  say  whether  I  obey  yours  later. 
A  u  revoir" 

CHAPTER  VI. 

ISAURA'S apartment,  on  the  following  Thursday  evening,  was 
more  filled  than  usual.  Besides  her  habitual  devotees  in  the 
artistic  or  literary  world,  there  were  diplomatists  and  deputies 
commixed  with  many  fair  chiefs  of  la  jeunesse  dore'e  ;  amongst 
the  latter  the  brilliant  Enguerrand  de  Vandemar,  who,  deeming 
the  acquaintance  of  every  celebrity  essential  to  his  own  celeb- 
rity, in  either  Carthage,  the  beau  monde  or  the  demi-monde,  had, 
two  Thursdays  before,  made  Louvier  attend  her  soiree  and 
present  him.  Louvier,  though  gathering  to  his  own  salons 
authors  and  artists,  very  rarely  favored  their  rooms  with  his 
presence  ;  he  did  not  adorn  Isaura's  party  that  evening.  But 
Duplessis  was  there,  in  compensation.  Jt  had  chanced  that 
Vale'rie  had  met  Isaura  at  some  house  in" the  past  winter,  and 
conceived  an  enthusiastic  affection  for  her  :  since  then,  Valerie 
came  very  often  to  see  her,  and  made  a  point  of  dragging  with 
her  to  Isaura's  Thursday  reunions  her  obedient  father.  "Soir/es, 
musical  or  literary,  were  not  much  in  his  line  ;  but  he  had  no 
pleasure  like  that  of  pleasing  his  spoilt  child.  Our  old  friend 
Frederic  Lemercier  was  also  one  of  Isaura's  guests  that  night. 
He  had  become  more  and  more  intimate  with  Duplessis,  and 
Duplessis  had  introduced  him  to  the  fair  Valerie  as  "  unjeune 
homme  plein  de  moyens,  qui  ira  loin" 

Savarin  was  there  of  course,  and  brought  with  him  an  English 
gentleman  of  the  name  of  Bevil,  as  well  known  at  Paris  as  in 
London — invited  every  where,  popular  everywhere — one  of  those 
welcome  contributors  to  the  luxuries  of  civilized  society  who 
trade  in  gossip,  sparing  no  pains  to  get  the  pick  of  it,  and 


THE   PARISIANS,  327 

ftxhanging  it  liberally  sometimes  (or  a  haunch  of  vension,  some- 
times for  a  cup  of  tea.  His  gossip  not  being  adulterated  with 
malice  was  in  high  repute  for  genuine  worth. 

If  Bevil  said,  "This  story  is  a.  fact,"  you  no  more  thought 
of  doubting  him^than  you  would  doubt  Rothschild  if  he  said, 
"  This  is  Lafitte  of  "48." 

Mr.  Bevil  was  at  present  on  a  very  short  stay  at  Paris,  and, 
naturally  wishing  to  make  the  most  of  his  time,  he  did  not  tarry 
beside  Savarin,  but,  after  being  introduced  to  Isaura,  flitted 
here  and  there  through  the  assembly. 

"  Apis  Matinee — 
More  modoque — 
Grata  carpenlis  thyma — " 

The  bee  proffers  honey,  but  bears  a  sting. 

The  room  was  at  its  fullest  when  Gustave  Rameau  entered, 
accompanied  by  Monsieur  de  Mauleon. 

Isaura  was  agreeably  surprised  by  the  impression  made  on 
her  by  the  Vicomte's  appearance  and  manner.  His  writings, 
and  such  as  she  had  heard  of  his  earlier  repute,  had  prepared 
her  to  see  a  man  decidedly  old,  of  withered  aspect  and  sar- 
donic smile,  aggressive  in  demeanor,  forward  or  contemptuous 
in  his  very  politeness — a  Mephistopheles  engrafted  on  the 
stem  of  a  Don  Juan.  She  was  startled  by  the  sight  of  one 
who,  despite  his  forty-eight  years — and  at  Paris  a  man  is 
generally  older  at  forty-eight  than  he  is  elsewhere — seemed  in 
the  zenith  of  ripened  manhood  ;  startled  yet  more  by  the 
singular  moflesty  of  a  deportment  too  thoroughly  highbred  not 
to  be  quietly  simple  ;  startled  most  by  a  melancholy  expres- 
sion in  eyes  that  could  be  at  times  soft,  though  always  so  keen, 
and  in  the  grave,  pathetic  smile  which  seemed  to  disarm  cen- 
sure of  past  faults  in  saying,  "I  have  known  sorrows." 

He  did  not  follow  up  his  introduction  to  his  young  hostess 
by  any  of  the  insipid  phrases  of  compliment  to  which  she  was 
accustomed  ;  but,  after  expressing  in  grateful  terms  his  thanks 
for  the  honor  she  had  permitted  Rameau  to  confer  on  him,  he 
moved  aside,  as  if  he  had  no  right  to  detain  her  from  other 
guests  more  worthy  her  notice,  towards  the  doorway,  taking 
his  place  by  Enguerrand  amidst  a  group  of  men  of  whom 
Duplessis  was  the  central  figure. 

At  that  time — the  first  week  in  May,  1870 — all  who  were 
then  in  Paris  will  remember  there  were  two  subjects  upper- 
most in  the  mouths  of  men  :  first,  the  plebiscite;  secondly,  the 
conspiracy  to  murder  the  Emperor,  which  the  disaffected  con- 


328  THE  PARISIANS. 

<.idered  to  be  a  mere  fable,  a  pretence  got  up  in  time  to  serve 
the  plebiscite  and  prop  the  Empire. 

Upon  this  latter  subject  Duplessis  had  been  expressing  him- 
self with  unwonted  animation.  A  loyal  and  earnest  Imperial- 
ist, it  was  only  with  effort  that  he  could  repress  his  scorn  of 
that  meanest  sort  of  gossip  which  is  fond  of  ascribing  petty 
motives  to  eminent  men. 

To  him  nothing  could  be  more  clearly  evident  than  the  real- 
ity of  this  conspiracy,  and  he  had  no  tolerance  for  the  malig- 
nant absurdity  of  maintaining  that  the  Emperor  or  his  Minis- 
ters could  be  silly  and  wicked  enough  to  accuse  seventy-two 
persons  of  a  crime  which  the  police  had  been  instructed  to  in- 
vent. 

As  De  Mauleon  approached,  the  financier  brought  his 
speech  to  an  abrupt  close.  He  knew  in  the  Vicomte  de  Maul- 
e"on  the  writer  of  articles  which  had  endangered  the  govern- 
ment, and  aimed  no  pointless  shafts  against  its  Imperial  head. 

"  My  cousin,"  said  Enguerrand  gayly,  as  he  exchanged  a 
cordial  shake  of  the  hand  with  Victor,  "  ^congratulate  you  on 
the  fame  of  journalist,  into  which  you  have  vaulted,  armed 
cap-a-pie,  like  a  knight  of  old  into  his  saddle  ;  but  I  don't  sym- 
pathize with  the  means  you  have  taken  to  arrive  at  that  re- 
nown. I  am  not  myself  an  Imperialist — a  Vandemar  can  be 
scarcely  that.  But  if  I  am  compelled  to  be  on  board  a  ship, 
I  don't  wish  to  take  out  its  planks  and  let  in  an  ocean,  when 
all  offered  to  me  instead  is  a  crazy  tub  and  a  rotten  rope." 

"  Trh  bicn"  said  Duplessis,  in  parliamentary  tone  and 
phrase. 

"But,"  said  De  Mauleon,  with  his  calm  smile,  "would  you 
like  the  captain  of  the  ship,  when  the  sky  darkened  and  the 
sea  rose,  to  ask  the  common  sailors  '  whether  they  approved 
his  conduct  on  altering  his  course  or  shortening  his  sail '  ? 
Better  trust  to  a  crazy  tub  and  a  rotten  rope  than  to  a  ship  in 
which  the  captain  consults  a  plebiscite." 

"Monsieur,"  said  Duplessis,  "your  metaphor  is  ill-chosen  — 
no  metaphor  indeed  is  needed.  The  head  of  the  State  was 
chosen  by  the  voice  of  the  people,  and,  when  required  to 
change  the  form  of  administration  which  the  people  had  sanc- 
tioned, and  inclined  to  do  so  from  motives  the  most  patriotic 
and  liberal,  he  is  bound  again  to  consult  the  people  from  whom 
he  holds  his  power.  It  is  not,  however,  of  the  plebiscite  we 
were  conversing,  so  much' as  of  the  atrocious  conspiracy  of  assas- 
sins— so  happily  discovered  in  time.  I  presume  that  Monsieui 
de  Mauleon  must  share  the  indignation  which  true  Frenchmen 


THE    PARISIANS.  329 

of  every  party  must  feel  against  a  combination  united  by  the 
purpose  of  murder." 

The  Vicomte  bowed,  as  in  assent.  "  But  do  you  believe," 
asked  a  Liberal  Depute,  "  that  such  a  combination  existed,  ex- 
cept in  the  visions  of  the  police  or  the  cabinet  of  a  Minister  ?  " 

Duplessis  looked  keenly  at  De  Mauleon  while  this  question 
was  put  to  him.  Belief  or  disbelief  in  the  conspiracy  was  with 
him,  and  with  many,  the  test  by  which  a  sanguinary  revolu- 
tionist was  distinguished  from  an  honest  politician. 

"  Ma  f<?i,"  answered  De  Mauleon,  shrugging  his  shoulders, 
"  I  have  only  one  belief  left ;  but  that  is  boundless.  I  believe 
in  the  folly  of  mankind  in  general,  and  of  Frenchmen  in  par- 
ticular. That  seventy-two  men  should  plot  the  assassination 
of  a  sovereign  on  whose  life  interests  so  numerous  a-nd  so 
watchful  depend,  .and  imagine  they  could  keep  a  secret  whicli 
any  drunkard  amongst  them  would  blab  out,  any  tatterde- 
malion would  sell,  is  a  betise  so  gross  that  I  think  it  highly 
probable.  But  pardon  me  if  I  look  upon  the  politics  of  Paris 
much  as  I  do  upon  its  mud — one  must  pass  through  it  when 
one  walks  in  the  street.  One  changes  one's  shoes  before  enter- 
ing the  salon.  A  word  with  you,  Enguerrand,"  and  taking  his 
kinsman's  arm  he  drew  him  aside  from  the  circle.  "What  has 
become  of  your  brother?  I  see  nothing  of  him  now." 

"Oh,  Raoul,"  answered  Enguerrand,  throwing  himself  on  a 
couch  in  a  recess,  and  making  roam  for  De  Mauleon  beside 
him — "Raoul  is  devoting  himself  to  the  distressed  ouvriers 
who  have  chosen  to  withdraw  from  work.  When  he  fails  to 
persuade  them  to  return,  he  forces  food  and  fuel  on  their 
wives  and  children.  My  good  'mother  encourages  him  in  this 
costly  undertaking,  and  no  one  but  you,  who  believe  in  the  in- 
finity of  human  folly,  would  credit  me  when  I  tell  you  that  his 
eloquence  has  drawn  from  me  all  the  argent  de  poche  I  get 
from  our  shop.  As  for  himself  he  has  sold  his  horses,  and 
even  grudges  a  cab- fare,  saying,  ''That  is  a  meal  for  a  family.' 
Ah  !  if  he  had  but  gone  into  the  Church,  what  a  saint  would 
have  deserved  canonization  !  " 

"  Do  not  lament ;  he  will  probably  have  what  is  a  better 
claim  than  mere  saintship  on  Heaven — martyrdom,"  said  De 
Mauleon,  with  a  smile  in  which  sarcasm  disappeared  in  mel- 
ancholy. "Poor  Raoul!  And  what  of  my  other  cousin,  the 
beau  Marquis?  Several  months  ago  his  Legitimist  faith 
seemed  vacillating ;  he  talked  to  me  very  fairly  about  the 
duties  a  Frenchman  owed  to  France,  and  hinted  that  he  should 
plage  his  sword  at  the  command  of  Napoleon  III.  I  have  not 


330  .     THE    PARISIANS. 

yet  heard  of  him  as  a  soldat  de  France ;  I  hear  a  great  deal  o{ 
him  as  a  viveitr  de  Paris." 

"  Don't  you  know  why  his  desire  for  a  military  career  was 
frost-bitten  ?" 

"No!     Why?" 

"  Alain  came  from  Bretagne  profoundly  ignorant  of  most 
things  known  to  a  gamin  of  Paris.  When  he  conscientiously 
overcame  the  scruples  natural  to  one  of  his  name,  and  told  the 
Duchesse  de  Tarascon  that  he  was  ready  to  fight  under  the 
Hag  of  France  whatever  its  color,  he  had  a  vague  reminiscence 
of  ancestral  Rochebriants  earning  early  laurels  at  the  head  of 
their  regiments.  At  all  events  he  assumed  as  a  matter  of 
course  that  he,  in  the  first  rank  as  gentilhomme,  would  enter 
ihe  army,  if  as  a  sous-lieutenant,  still  as  gentilhomme.  But  when 
told  that,  as  he  had  been  at  no  military  college,  he  could  only 
enter  the  ranks  as  a  private  soldier — herd  with  private  soldiers — 
for  at  least  two  years  before  passing  through  the  grade  of  cor- 
poral, his  birth,  education,  habits  of  life  could,  with  great 
favor,  raise  him  to  the  station  of  a  sous-lieutenant,  you  may 
conceive  that  the  martial  ardor  of  a  Rochebriant  was  some- 
what cooled." 

"  If  he  knew  what  the  dormitory  of  French  privates  is,  and 
how  difficult  a  man  well  educated,  well  brought  up,  finds  it, 
first,  to  endure  the  coarsest  ribaldry  and  the  loudest  blas- 
phemy, and  then,  having  endured  and  been  compelled  to  share 
them,  ever  enforce  obedience  and  discipline  as  a  superior 
among  those  with  whom  just  before  he  was  an  equal,  his  ardor 
would  not  have  been  merely  cooled — it  would  have  been 
changed  into  despair  for  the  armies  of  France,  if  hereafter  they 
are  met  by  those  whose  officers  have  been  trained  to  be  officers 
from  the  outset,  and  have  imbibed  from  their  cradle  an  educa- 
tion not  taught  to  the  boy-pedants  from  school — the  twofold 
education  how  with  courtesy  to  command,  how  with  dignity  to 
obey.  To  return  to  Rochebriant,  such  salons  as  I  frequent  are 
somewhat  formal — as  befits  my  grave  years  and  my  modest  in- 
come ;  I  may  add,  now  that  you  know  rny  vocation — befits  me 
also  as  a  man  who  seeks  rather  to  be  instructed  than  amused. 
In  those  salons  I  did,  last  year,  sometimes,  however,  meet 
Rochebriant — as  I  sometimes  still  meet  you  ;  but  of  late  he 
has  deserted  such  sober  reunions,  and  I  hear  with  pain  that  he 
is  drifting  among  those  rocks  against  which  my  own  youth  was 
shipwrecked.  Is  the  report  true  ?" 

"  I  fear,"  said  Enguerrand  reluctantly,  "  that  at  least  the 
jeport  is  not  unfounded.  And  my  conscience  accuses  me  of 


THE    PARISIANS.  331 

having  been  to  blame  in  the  first  instance.  You  see,  when 
Alain  made  terms  with  Louvier  by  which  he  obtained  a  very 
fair  income,  if  prudently  managed,  I  naturally  wished  that  a 
man  of  so  many  claims  to  social  distinction,  and  who  repre- 
sents the  oldest  branch  of  my  family,  should  take  his  right 
place  in  our  world  of  Paris.  I  gladly  therefore  presented  him 
to  the  houses  and  the  men  most  a  la  mode — advised  him  as  to 
the  sort  of  establishment,  in  apartments,  horses,  etc.,  which 
it  appeared  to  me  that  he  might  reasonably  afford — I  mean 
Biich  as,  with  his  means,  I  should  have  prescribed  to  my- 
self— " 

"  Ah  !  I  understand.  But  you,  dear  Enguerrand,  are  a  born 
Parisian,  every  inch  of  you  :  .and  a  born  Parisian  is,  whatever 
be  thought  to  the  contrary,  the  best  manager  in  the  world.  He 
alone  achieves  the  difficult  art  of  uniting  thrift  with  show.  It 
is  your  Provincial,  who  comes  to  Paris  in  the  freshness  of  un- 
dimmed  youth,  who  sows  his  whole  life  on  its  barren  streets.  I 
guess  the  rest:  Alain  is  ruined." 

Enguerrand,  who  certainly  was  so  far  a  born  Parisian  that, 
with  all  his  shrewdness  and  saroir  faire,  he  had  a  wonderfully 
sympathetic  heart,  very  easily  moved,  one  way  or  the  other — 
Enguerrand  winced  at  his  elder  kinsman's  words,  compliment- 
arily  reproachful,  and  said  in  unvvonted  tones  of  humility, 
"  Cousin,  you  are  cruel,  but  you  are  in  the  right.  I  did  not 
calculate  sufficiently  on  the  chances  of  Alain's  head  being 
turned.  Hear  rny  excuse.  He  seemed  to  me  so  much  more 
thoughtful  than  most  at  our  age  are,  so  much  more  stately  and 
proud  ;  well,  also,  so  much  more  pure,  so  impressed  with  the  re- 
sponsibilities of  station,  so  bent  on  retaining  the  old  lands  in 
Bretagne  ;  by  habit  and  rearing  so  simple  and  self-denying, 
that  I  took  it  for  granted  he  was  proof  against  stronger  tempta 
tions  than  those  which  a  light  nature  like  my  own  puts  aside 
with  a  laugh.  And  at  first  I  had  no  reason  to  think  myself 
deceived,  when,  some  months  ago,  I  heard  that  he  was  getting 
into  debt,  losing  at  play,  paying  court  to  female  vampires,  who 
drain  the  life-blood  of  those  on  whom  they  fasten  their  fatal 
lips.  Oh,  then  I  spoke  to  him  earnestly  !  " 

"  And  in  vain  ?" 

"  In  vain.  A  certain  Chevalier  de  Finisterre,  whom  you  may 
have  heard  of — " 

"  Certainly,  and  met ;  a  friend  of  Louvier's — " 

"  The  same  man — has  obtained  over  him  an  influence  which 
so  far  subdues  mine,  that  he  almost  challenged  me  when  I  told 
him  his  friend  was  a  scamp.  In  fine,  though  Alain  and  J  have 


332  THE    PARISIANS. 

not  actually  quarreled,  we  pass  each  other  with  l  Bon  jour,  mon 
ami.'  " 

"  Hum  !  My  dear  Enguerrand,  you  have  done  all  you  could. 
Flies  will  be  flies,  and  spiders,  spiders,  till  the  earth  is  de- 
stroyed by  a  comet.  Nay,  I  met  a  distinguished  naturalist  in 
America  who  maintained  that  we  shall  find  flies  and  spiders  in 
the  next  world." 

"  You  have  been  in  America  ?  Ah,  true — I  remember,  Cali- 
fornia !  " 

"  Where  have  I  not  been  ?  Tush  !  music — shall  I  hear  our 
fair  hostess  sing  ?" 

''  I  am  afraid  not  to-night  :  because  Madame  S '  is  to  fa- 
vor us,  and  the  Signorina  makes  it  a  rule  not  to  sing  at  her 
own  house  when  professional  artists  do.  You  must  hear  the 
Cicogna  quietly  some  day  ;  such  a  voice,  nothing  like  it." 

Madame  S -,  who,  since  she  had  learned  that  there  was 

no  cause  to  apprehend  that  Isaura  might  become  her  profes- 
sional rival,  conceived  for  her  a  wonderful  affection,  and  will- 
ingly contributed  her  magnificent  gifts  of  song  to  the  charms  of 
Isaura's  salon,  now  began  a  fragment  from  I  Puritani,  which 
held  the  audience  as  silent  as  the  ghosts  listening  to  Sappho  ; 
and  when  it  was  over  several  of  the  guests  slipped  away,  es- 
pecially those  who  disliked  music,  and  feared  Madame  S 

might  begin  again.  Enguerrand  was  not  one  of  such  soulless 
recreants,  but  he  had  many  other  places  to  go  to.  Besides, 
Madame  S was  no  novelty  to  him. 

De  Mauleon  now  approached  Isaura,  who  was  seated  next  to 
Valerie,  and  after  well-merited  eulogium  on  Madame  S.'s  per- 
formance, slid  into  some  critical  comparisons  between  that 
singer  and  those  of  a  former  generation,  which  interested 
Isaura,  and  evinced  to  her  quick  perceptions  that  kind  of  love 
for  music  which  has  been  refined  by  more  knowledge  of  the 
art  than  is  common  to  mere  amateurs. 

"  You  have  studied  music,  Monsieur  de  Mauleon,"  she  said. 
"  Do  you  not  perform  yourself?" 

"  I  ?  No.  But  music  has  always  had  a  fatal  attraction  for  me. 
I  ascribe  half  the  errors  of  my  life  to  that  temperament  which 
makes  me  too  fascinated  by  harmonies;  too  revolted  by  discords." 

"  I  should  have  thought  such  a  temperament  would  have  led 
from  errors  ;  are  not  errors  discords  ?  " 

"  To  the  inner  sense,  yes  ;  but  to  the  outer  sense,  not  always, 
Virtues  are  often  harsh  to  the  ear  ;  errors  very  sweet-voiced. 
The  sirens  did  not  sing  out  of  tune.  Better  to  stop  one's  ears 
than  glide  on  Scylla  or  be  merged  into  CharybdJS." 


THE    PARISIANS.  533 

"  Monsieur/'  cried  Valerie,  with  a  pretty  brusquerie  which 
became  her  well,  "  you  talk  like  a  Vandal." 

"  It  is,  I  think,  by  Mademoiselle  Duplessis  that  I  have  the 
honor  to  be  rebuked.  Is  Monsieur  your  father  very  suscep- 
tible to  music  ?  " 

"  Well,  I  cannot  say  that  he  cares  much  for  it.  But  then  his 
mind  is  so  practical — " 

"  And  his  life  so  successful.  No  Scylla,  no  Charybdis  for 
him.  However,  Mademoiselle,  I  am  not  quite  the  Vandal  you 
suppose.  I  do  not  say  that  susceptibility  to  the  influence  of 
music  may  not  be  safe,  nay,  healthful  to  others — it  was  not  so 
to  me  in  my  youth.  It  can  do  me  no  harm  now." 

Here  Duplessis  came  up  and  whispered  his  daughter  "  it  was 
time  to  leave  ;  they  had  promised  the  Duchesse  de  Tarascon  to 
assist  at  the  soiree  she  gave  that  night."  Valerie  took  her 
father's  arm  with  a  brightening  smile  and  a  heightened  color. 
Alain  de  Rochebriant  might  probably  be  at  the  Duchesse's. 

"  Are  you  not  going  also  to  the  Hotel  de  Tarascon,  M.  de 
Mauleon?"  asked  Duplessis. 

"  No  ;  I  was  never  there  but  once.  The  Duchesse  is  an 
Imperialist  at  once  devoted  and  acute,  and  no  doubt  very  soon 
divined  my  lack  of  faith  in  her  idols." 

Duplessis  frowned,  and  hastily  led  Valerie  away. 

In  a  few  minutes  the  room  was  comparatively  deserted. 
De  Mauleon,  however,  lingered  by  the  side  of  Isaura  till  all 
the  other  guests  were  gone.  Even  then  he  lingered  still,  and 
renewed  the  interrupted  conversation  with  her,  the  Venosta 
joining  therein  ;  and  so  agreeable  did  he  make  himself  to  her 
Italian  tastes  by  a  sort  of  bitter-sweet 'wisdom  like  that  of  her 
native  proverbs — comprising  much  knowledge  of  mankind  on 
the  unflattering  side  of  humanity  in  that  form  of  pleasantry 
which  has  a  latent  sentiment  of  pathos— that  the  Venosta  ex- 
claimed, "  Surely  you  must  have  been  brought  up  in  Flor- 
ence.! " 

There  was  that  in  De  Mauleon's  talk  hostile  to  all  which  we 
call  romance  that  excited  the  imagination  of  Isaura,  and  com- 
pelled her  instinctive  love  for  whatever  is  more  sweet,  more 
beautiful,  more  ennobling  on  the  many  sides  of  human  life,  to 
oppose  what  she  deemed  the  paradoxes  of  a  man  who  had 
taught  himself  to  belie  even  his  own  nature.  She  became  elo- 
quent, and  her  countenance,  which  in  ordinary  moments  owed 
much  of  its  beauty  to  an  expression  of  meditative  gentleness, 
was  now  lighted  up  by  the  energy  of  earnest  conviction,  the 
enthusiasm  of  an  impassioned  zeal. 


334  THE    PARISIANS. 

Gradually  De  Mauleon  relaxed  his  share  in  the  dialogue, 
and  listened  to  her,  rapt  and  dreamingly  as  in  his  fiery  youth 
he  had  listened  to  the  songs  of  the  sirens.  No  siren  Isaura  ! 
She  was  defending  her  own  cause,  though  unconsciously  ;  de- 
fending the  vocation  of  art,  as  the  embellisher  of  external 
nature,  and  more  than  embellisher  of  the  nature  which  dwells 
crude,  but  plastic,  in  the  soul  of  man  ;  indeed  therein  the 
creator  of  a  new  nature,  strengthened,  expanded,  and  bright- 
ened in  proportion  as  it  accumulates  the  ideas  that  tend  beyond 
the  boundaries  of  the  visible  and  material  nature,  which  is 
finite  ;  forever  seeking  in  the  unseen  and  the  spiritual  the  goals 
in  the  infinite  which  it  is  their  instinct  to  divine. 

"  That  which  you  contemptuously  call  romance,"  said  Isaura, 
"  is  not  essential  only  to  poets  and  artists.  The  most  real  side 
of  every  life,  from  the  earliest  dawn  of  mind  in  the  infant,  is  the 
romantic.  When  the  child  is  weaving  flower-chains,  chasing 
butterflies,  or  sitting  apart  and  dreaming  what  it  will  do  in  the 
.future,  is  not  that  the  child's  real  life,  and  yet  is  it  not  also  the 
romantic  ?  " 

"  But  there  comes  a  time  when  we  weave  no  flower-chains, 
and  chase  no  butterflies." 

"Is  it  so?  Still  on  one  side  of  life,  flowers  and  butterflies 
may  be  found  to  the  last ;  and  at  least  to  the  last  are  there  no 
dreams  of  the  future  ?  Have  you  no  such  dreams  at  this 
moment  ?  And  without  the  romance  of  such  dreams,  would 
there  be  any  reality  to  human  life  which  could  distinguish  it 
from  the  life  of  the  weed  that  rots  on  Lethe?" 

"  Alas,  Mademoiselle,"  said  De  Mauleon,  rising  to  take  leave, 
:<  your  argument  must  rest  without  answer.  I  would  not,  if  I 
could,  confute  the  beautiful  belief  that  belongs  to  youth,  fusing 
into  one  rainbow  all  the  tints  that  can  color  the  world.  But 
the  Signora  Venosta  wjll  acknowledge  the  truth  of  an  old  say- 
ing expressed  in  every  civilized  language,  but  best,  perhaps,  in 
that  of  the  Florentine  :  'You  might  as  well  physic  the  dead 
as  instruct  the  old.'  " 

"  But  you  are  not  old  ! "  said  the  Venosta,  with  Florentine 
politeness  ;  "  You  !  Not  a  gray  hair." 

"'Tis  not  by  the  gray  of  the  hair  that  one  knows  the  age  of 
the  heart,"  answered  De  Mauleon,  in  another  paraphrase  of 
Italian  proverb,  and  he  was  gone. 

.As  he  walked  homeward  through  deserted  streets,  Victor  de 
Mauleon  thought  to  himself  :  "  Poor  girl,  how  I  pity  her  ! 
Married  to  a  Gustave  Rameau — married  to  any  man — nothing 
in  the  nature  of  man,  be  he  the  best  and  the  cleverest,  can  ever 


THE  PARISIANS.  335 

realize  the  dream  of  a  girl  who  is  pure  and  has  genius.  All,  is 
not  the  converse  true  ?  What  girl,  the  best  and  the  cleverest, 
comes  up  to  the  ideal  of  even  a  commonplace  man — -if  he  ever 
dreamed  of  an  ideal !  "  Then  he  paused,  and  in  a  moment  or 
so  afterwards  his  thought  knew  such  questionings  no  more.  It 
turned  upon  personalities,  on  stratagems  and  plots,  on  ambi- 
tion. The  man  had  more  than  his  share  of  that  peculiar 
susceptibility  which  is  one  of  the  characteristics  of  his  coun- 
trymen— susceptibility  to  immediate  impulse  ;  susceptibility  to 
fleeting  impressions.  It  was  a  key  to  many  mysteries  in  his 
character  when  he  owned  his  subjection  to  the  influence  of 
music,  and  in  music  recognized  not  the  seraph's  harp,  but  the 
siren's  song.  If  you  could  have  permanently  fixed  Victor  de 
Mauleon  in  one  of  the  good  moments  of  his  life,  even  now — 
some  moment  of  exquisite  kindness,  of  superb  generosity,  of 
dauntless  courage — you  wovrjd  have  secured  a  very  rare  speci- 
men of  noble  humanity.  But  so  to  fix  him  was  impossible. 

That  impulse  of  the  moment  vanished  the  moment  after  ; 
swept  aside  by  the  force  of  his  very  talents — talents  concen- 
trated by  his  intense  sense  of  individuality  ;  sense  of  wrongs 
or  of  rights  ;  interests  or  objects  personal  to  himself.  He  ex- 
tended the  royal  saying,  " L'etat,  cest  moi"  to  words  far  more 
grandiloquent.  "The  universe,  'tis  I."  The  Venosta  would 
have  understood  him  and  smiled  approvingly,  if  he  had  said 
with  good  humored  laugh,  "  I  dead,  the  world  is  dead  ! " 
That  is  an  Italian  proverb,  and  means  much  the  same  thing. 


BOOK  VIII. 


CHAPTER  I. 

ON  the  8th  of  May  the  vote  of  the  plebiscite  was  recorded  ; 
between  seven  and  eight  millions  of  Frenchmen  in  support  of 
the  Imperial  programme — in  plain  words,  of  the  Emperor  him- 
self— against  a  minority  of  1,500,000.  But  among  the  1,500,- 
ooo  were  the  old  throne-shakers,  those  who  compose  and  those 
who  lead  the  mob  of  Paris.  On  the  i4th,  as  Rameau  was 
about  to  quit  the  editorial  bureau  of  his  printing-office,  a  note 
was  brought  in  to  him  which  strongly  excited  his  nervous 
system.  It  contained  a  request  to  see  him  forthwith,  signed 


336  THE  PARISIANS. 

by  those  two  distinguished  foreign  members  of  the  Secret 
Council  of  Ten,  Thaddeus  Loubinsky  and  Leonardo  Raselli. 

The  meetings  of  that  Council  had  been  so  long  suspended 
that  Rameau  had  almost  forgotten  ils  existence.  He  gave 
orders  to  admit  the  conspirators.  The  two  men  entered — the 
Pole,  tall,  stalwart,  and  with  martial  stride  ;  the  Italian,  smal1, 
emaciated,  with  skulking,  noiseless,  cat-like  step — both  looking 
wondrous  threadbare,  and  in  that  state  called  "  shabby  gen- 
teel," which  belongs  to  the  man  who  cannot  work  for  his  live- 
lihood, and  assumes  a  superiority  over  the.  man  who  can. 
Their  outward  appearance  was  in  notable  discord  with  that  of 
the  poet-politician  ;  he  all  new  in  the  last  fashions  of  Parisian 
elegance,  and  redolent  of  Parisian  prosperity  and  extrait  de 
Mousseline  ! 

"  Confrere"  said  the  Pole,  seating  himself  on  the  edge  of 
the  table,  while  the  Italian  leaned  against  the  mantel-piece, 
and  glanced  round  the  room  with  furtive  eye,  as  if  to  detect 
its  innermost  secrets,  or  decide  where  safest  to  drop  a  lucifer- 
match  for  its  conflagration  ;  "  Confrere"  said  the  Pole,  "  your 
country  needs  you — 

"  Rather,  the  cause  of  all  countries,"  interposed  the  Italian 
softly;  "Humanity." 

"  Please  to  explain  yourselves  ;  but  stay,  wait  a  moment," 
said  Rameau  ;  and  rising,  he  went  to  the  door,  opened  it, 
looked  forth,  ascertained  that  the  coast  was  clear,  then  re- 
closed  the  door  as  cautiously  as  a  prudent  man  closes  his 
pocket  whenever  shabby-genteel  visitors  appeal  to  him  in  the 
cause  of  his  country,  still  more  if  they  appeal  in  that  of 
Humanity. 

"Confrere"  said  the  Pole,  "this  day  a  movement  is  to  be 
made — a  demonstration  on  behalf  of  your  country — " 

"  Of  Humanity,"  again  softly  interposed  the  Italian. 

"Attend  and  share  it,"  said  the  Pole. 

"  Pardon  me,"  said  Rameau,  "  I  do  not  know  what  you 
mean.  I  am  now  the  editor  of  a  journal  in  which  the  pro- 
prietor does  not  countenance  violence  ;  and  if  you  come  to 
me  as  a  member  of  the  Council,  you  must  be  aware  that  I 
should  obey  no  orders  but  that  of  its  president,  whom  I  have 
not  seen  for  nearly  a  year  ;  indeed,  I  know  not  if  the  Council 
still  exists." 

"  The  Council  exists,  and  with  it  the  obligations  it  imposes," 
replied  Thaddeus. 

"  Pampered  with  luxury,"  here  the  Pole  raised  his  voice, 
"  do  you  dare  to  reject  the  yoke  of  Poverty  and  Freedom  ?  " 


"  Hush,  dear  but  too  vehement  confrere}'  rntirhiiired  the 
bland  Italian  ;  "  permit  me  to  dispel  the  reasonable  doubts  of 
our  confrere"  and  he  took  out  of  his  breast-pocket  a  paper 
which  he  presented  to  Rameau  ;  on  it  were  written  these  words  : 

"  This  evening,  May  i4th.  Demonstration.-;— Faubourg  du 
Temple. — Watch  events,  under  orders  of  A.  M.  Bid  the  young- 
est member  take  that  first  opportunity  to  test  nerves  and  dis- 
cretion. He  is  not  to  act,  but  to  observe." 

No  name  was  appended  to  this  instruction,  but  a  cipher  in- 
telligible to  all  members  of  the  Council  as  significant  of  its 
president,  Jean  Lebeau. 

"  If  I  err  not,"  said  the  Italian,  "  Citizen  Rameau  is  our 
youngest  confrere" 

Rameau  paused.  The  penalties  for  disobedience  to  an  order 
of  the  President  of  the  Council  were  too  formidable  to  be  dis- 
regarded. There  could  be  no  doubt  that,  though  his  name  \vas 
not  mentioned,  he,  Rameau,  was  accurately  designated  as  the 
youngest  member  of  the  Council.  Still,  however  he  might 
have  owed  his  present  position  to  the  recommendation  of  Le- 
beau, there  was  nothing  in  the  conversation  of  M.  de  Mauleon 
which  would  warrant  participation  in  a  popular  emeute  by  the 
editor  of  a  journal  belonging  to  that  mocker  of  the  mob.  Ah  ! 
but — and  here  again  he  glanced  over  the  paper — he  was  asked 
"  not  to  act,  but  to  observe."  To  observe  was  the  duty  of  a 
journalist.  He  might  go  to  the  demonstration  as  De  Mauleon 
confessed  he  had  gone  to  the  Communist  Club,  a  philosophical 
spectator. 

"You  do  not  disobey  this  order?"  said  the  Pole,  crossing  his 
arms. 

"  I  shall  certainly  go  into  the  Faubourg  du  Temple  this 
evening,"  answered  Rameau  dryly  ;  "  I  have  business  that  way." 

"  Bon  !  "  said  the  Pole  ;  "  I  did  not  think  you  would  fail  us, 
though  you  do  edit  a  journal  which  says  not  a  word  on  the 
duties  that  bind  the  French  people  to  the  resuscitation  of 
Poland." 

"  And  is  not  pronounced  in  decided  accents  upon  the  cause 
of  the  human  race,"  put  in  the  Italian,  whispering. 

"  I  do  not  write  the  political  articles  in  Le  Sens  Commun" 
answered  Rameau ;  "  and  I  suppose  that  our  president  is  sat- 
isfied with  them  since  he  recommended  me  to  the  preference 
of  the  person  who  does.  Have  you  more  to  say  ?  Pardon  me, 
my  time  is  precious,  for  it  does  not  belong  to  me." 

"Eno'I"  said  the  Italian,  "We  will  detain  you  no  longer." 
Here,  with  bow  and  smile,  he  glided  towards  the  door. 


tttfc  PARISIANS. 

"  Confrere,"  muttered  the  Pole,  lingering,  "  you  must  have 
become  very  rich  !  Uo  not  focget  the  wrongs  of  Poland — I  am 
their  Representative — I — speaking  in  that  character,  not  as  my- 
self individually — /  have  not  breakfasted  !  " 

Rameau,  too  thoroughly  Parisian  not  to  be  as  lavish  of  his 
own  money  as  he  was  envious  of  another's,  slipped  some  pieces 
of  gold  into  the  Pole's  hand.  The  Pole's  bosom  heaved  with 
manly  emotion  :  "  These  pieces  bear  the  effigies  of  the  tyrant — 
I  accept  them  as  redeemed  from  disgrace  by  their  uses  to 
Freedom." 

"  Share  them  with  Signor  Raselli  in  the  name  of  the  same 
cause,"  whispered  Rameau,  with  a  smile  he  might  have  plagiar- 
ized from  De  Mauleon. 

The  Italian,  whose  ear  was  inured  to  whispers,  heard  and 
turned  round  as  he  stood  at  the  threshold. 

"  No,  confrere  of  France  ;  no,  confrere  of  Poland — I  am 
Italian.  All  ways  to  take  the  life  of  an  enemy  are  honorable  ; 
no  way  is  honorable  which  begs  money  from  a  friend." 

An  hour  or  so  later,  Rameau  was  driven  in  his  comfortable 
coupe  to  the  Faubourg  du  Temple. 

Suddenly,  at  the  angle  of  a  street,  his  coachman  was 
stopped  ;  a  rough-looking  man  appeared  at  the  door :  "De- 
scends, man  petit  bourgeois."  Behind  the  rough-looking  man 
were  menacing  faces. 

Rameau  was  not  physically  a  coward— very  few  Frenchmen 
are,  still  fewer  Parisians  ;  and  still  fewer,  no  matter  what 
their  birthplace,  the  men  whom  we  call  vain,  the  men  who 
overmuch  covet  distinction,  and  overmuch  dread  reproach. 

"Why  shoifld  I  descend  at  your  summons?"  said  Rameau 
haughtily.  "  Bah  !  Coachman,  drive  on  !  " 

The  rough  looking  man  opened  the  door,  and  silently  ex- 
tended a  hand  to  Rameau,  saying  gently  :  "  Take  my  advice, 
mon  bourgeois.  "  Get  out  :  we  want  your  carriage.  It  is  a  day 
of  barricades  ;  every  little  helps,  even  your  coupe  !  " 

While  this  man  spoke  others  gesticulated  ;  some  shrieked 
out  :  "  He  is  an  employer  !  He  thinks  he  can  drive  over  the 
employed  !  "  Some  leader  of  the  crowd — a  Parisian  crowd 
always  has  a  classical  leader,  who  has  never  read  the  clas- 
sics— thundered  forth  :  "  Tarquin's  car  ! "  "  Down  with  Tar- 
quin  !  "  Therewith  came  a  yell,  "  A  la  lantcrne — Tarquin  !  " 

We  Anglo-Saxons,  of  the  old  country  or  the  new,  are  not 
familiarized  to  the  dread  roar  of  a  populace  delighted  to  have 
a  Roman  authority  for  tearing  us  to  pieces  ;  still  Americans 
know  what  is  lynch  law.  Rameau  was  in  danger  of  lynch 


THE  PARISIANS.  339 

law,  when  suddenly  a  face  not  unknown  to  him  interposed  be- 
tween himself  and  the  rough-looking  man. 

"  Ha  !  "  cried  this  new-comer,  "my  young  confrere,  Gustave 
Rameau,  welcome  !  Citizens,  make  way.  I  answer  for  this 
patriot — I,  Armand  Monnier.  He  comes  to  help  us.  Is  this 
the  way  you  receive  him  ?  "  Then  in  low  voice  to  Rameau, 
"  Come  out.  Give  your  coupe  to  the  barricade.  What  mat- 
ters such  rubbish?  Trust  to  me — I  expected  you.  Hist.' 
Lebeau  bids  me  see  that  you  are  safe." 

Rameau  then,  seeking  to  drape  himself  in  majesty— as  the 
aristocrats  of  journalism  in  a  city  wherein  no  other  aristocracy 
is  recognized,  naturally  and  commendably  do,  when  ignorance 
combined  with  physical  strength  asserts  itself  to  be  a  power, 
beside  which  the  power  of  knowledge  is  what  a  learned  poodle 
is  to  a  tiger — Rameau  then  descended  from  his  coupe  and 
said  to  this  Titan  of  labor,  as, a  French  marquis  might  have 
said  to  his  valet,  and  as,  when  the  French  marquis  has  be- 
come a  ghost  of  the  past,  the  man  who  keeps  a  coupe  says  to 
the  man  who  mends  its  wheels,  "  Honest  fellow,  I  trust  you." 

Monnier  led  the  journalist  through  the  mob  to  the  rear  of 
the  barricade  hastily  constructed.  Here  were  assembled  very 
motley  groups. 

The  majority  were  ragged  boys,  the  gamins  of  Paris,  com- 
mingled with  several  women  of  no  reputable  appearance,  some 
dingily,  some  gaudily  apparelled.  The  crowd  did  not  appear 
as  if  the  business  in  hand  was  a  very  serious  one.  Amidst  the 
din  of  voices  the  sound  of  laughter  rose  predominant,  jests  and 
bans  mots  flew  from  lip  to  lip.  The  astonishing  good-humor 
of  the  Parisians  was  not  yet  excited  into  the  ferocity  that 
grows  out  of  it  by  a  street  contest.  It  was  less  like  a  popular 
tmcute  than  a  gathering  of  schoolboys,  bent  not  less  on  fun 
than  on  mischief.  But  still,  amid  this  gayer  crowd  were 
sinister,  lowering  faces  ;  the  fiercest  were  not  those  of  the  very 
poor,  but  rather  of  artisans,  who,  to  judge  by  their  dress, 
seemed  well  off — of  men  belonging  to  yet  higher  grades. 
Rameau  distinguished  amongst  these  the  me'decin  des  paurrcs, 
the  philosophical  atheist,  sundry  young  long-haired  artists, 
middle-aged  writers  for  the  Republican  press,  in  close  neigh- 
borhood with  ruffians  of  villanous  aspect,  who  might  have  been 
newly  returned  from  the  galleys.  None  were  regularly  armed  ; 
still  revolvers  and  muskets  and  long  knives  were  by  no  means 
unfrequently  interspersed  among  the  rioters.  The  whole  scene 
was  to  Rameau  a  confused  panorama,  and  the  dissonant  tumult 
of  yells  and  laughter,  of  menace  and  joke,  began  rapidly  to  act 


340  THE   PARISIANS. 

on  his  impressionable  nerves.  He  felt  that  which  is  the  prevalent 
character  of  a  Parisian  riot,  the  intoxication  of  an  impulsive 
sympathy  ;  coming  there  as  a  reluctant  spectator,  if  action 
commenced  he  would  have  been  borne  readily  into.,  the  thick 
of  the  action — he  could  not  have  helped  it  ;  already  he  grew 
impatient  of  the  suspense  of  strife.  Monnier  having  deposited 
him  safely  with  his  back  to  a  wall,  at  the  corner  of  a  street 
handy  for  flight,  if  flight  became  expedient,  had  left  him  for 
several  minutes,  having  business  elsewhere.  Suddenly  the 
whisper  of  the  Italian  stole  into  his  ear  :  "  These  men  are 
fools.  This  is  not  the  way  to  do  business  ;  this  does  not  hurt 
the  robber  of  Nice — Garibaldi's  Nice  :  they  should  have  left 
it  to  me." 

"  What  would  you  do  ? " 

"  I  have  invented  a  new  machine,"  whispered  the  Friend  of 
Humanity  ;  "  it  would  remove  all  at  one  blow — lion  and 
lioness,  whelp  and  jackals — andt/itu  the  Revolution  if  you  will  ! 
not  this  paltry  tumult.  The  cause  of  the  human  race  is  being 
frittered  away.  I  am  disgusted  with  Lebeau.  Thrones  are 
not  overturned  by  gamins." 

Before  Rameau  could  answer,  Monnier  rejoined  him.  The 
artisan's  face  was  overcast,  his  lips  compressed,  yet  quivering 
with  indignation.  "Brother,"  he  said  to  Rameau,  "  to-day  the 
cause  is  betrayed  (the  word  train  was  just  then  coming  into 
vogue  at  Paris)  ;  the  blouses  I  counted  on  are  recreant.  1  have 
just  learned  that  all  is  quiet  in  the  other  quartiers  where  the 
rising  was  to  have  been  simultaneous  with  this.  We  are  in  it 
guet-a-pens — the  soldiers  will  be  down  on  us  in  a  few  minutes  ; 
hark  !  don't  you  hear  the  distant  tramp  ?  Nothing  for  us  but 
to  die  like  men.  Our  blood  will  be  avenged  later.  Here," 
and  he  thrust  a  revolver  into  Rameau's  hand.  Then  with  a 
lusty  voice  that  rang  through  the  crowd,  he  shouted,  "  Vive  la 
peuple!"  The  rioters  caught  and  re-echoed  the  cry,  mingled 
with  other  cries,  "Vive  la  Re'publique ! "  "Vive  le  drapeau 
rouge  !  " 

The  shouts  were  yet  at  their  full  when  a  strong  hand  grasped 
Monnier's  arm,  and  a  clear,  deep,  but  low  voice  thrilled  through 
his  ear  :  "  Obey  !  I  warned  you.  No  fight  to-day.  Time  not 
ripe.  All  that  is  needed  is  done — do  not  undo  it.  Hist  !  the 
sergens  deville  are  force  enough  to  disperse  the  swarm  of  those 
gnats.  Behind  the  sergens  come  soldiers  who  will  not  fraternize. 
Lose  not  one  life  to-day.  The  morrow  when  we  shall  need 
every  man — nay,  every  gamin — will  dawn  soon.  Answer  not. 
Obey  !  "  The  same  strong  hand,  quitting  its  hold  on  Monnier, 


THE    PARISIANS.  34! 

then  seized  Rameau  by  the  wrist,  and  the  same  deep  voice 
said  :  "  Come  with  me."  Rameau,  turning  in  amaze,  not  un- 
mixed with  anger,  saw  beside  him  a  tall  man,  with  sombrero 
hat  pressed  close  over  his  head,  and  in  the  blouse  of  a  laborer, 
but  through  such  disguise  he  recognized  the  pale  gray  whiskers 
and  green  spectacles  of  Lebeau.  He  yielded  passively  to  the 
grasp  that  led  him  away  down  the  deserted  street  at  the  angle. 

At  the  further  end  of  that  street,  however,  was  heard  the 
steady  thud  of  hoofs. 

"  The  soldiers  are  taking  the  mob  at  its  rear,"  said  Lebeau, 
calmly  ;  "  we  have  not  a  moment  to  lose — this  way,"  and  he 
plunged .  into  a  dismal  court,  then  into  a  labyrinth  of  lanes, 
followed  mechanically  by  Rameau.  They  issued  at  last  on  the 
Boulevards,  in  which  the  usual  loungers  were  quietly  saunter- 
ing, wholly  unconscious  of  the  riot  elsewhere.  "  Now,  take 
that  fiacre  and  go  home  ;  write  down  your  impressions  of  what 
you  have  seen,  and  take  your  MS.  to  M.  de  Mauleon."  Le- 
beau here  quitted  him. 

Meanwhile  all  happened  as  Lebeau  had  predicted.  The 
sergens  de  ville  showed  themselves  in  front  of  the  barricades,  a 
small  troop  of  mounted  soldiers  appeared  in  the  rear.  The 
mob  greeted  the  first  with  yells  and  a  shower  of  stones  ;  at 
the  sight  of  the  last  they  fled  in  all  directions  ;  and  the  sergcns 
de  ville,  calmly  scaling  the  barricades,  carried  off  in  triumph, 
as  prisoners  of  war,  four  gamins,  three  women,  and  one  Irish- 
man loudly  protesting  innocence,  and  shrieking  "  Murther  !  " 
So  ended  the  first  inglorious  rise  against  \\\Q  plebiscite  and  the 
Empire,  on  the  i4th  of  May,  1870. 

From  Isaura  Cicogna  to  Madame  de  Grantmesnil. 

11  Saturday,  May  21,  1870. 

"  I  am  still,  dearest  Eulalie,  under  the  excitement  of  im- 
pressions wholly  new  to  me.  I  have  this  day  witnessed  one  of 
those  scenes  which  take  us  out  of  our  private  life,  not  into  the 
world  of  fiction,  but  of  history,  in  which  we  live  as  in  the  life 
of  a  nation.  You  know  how  intimate  I  have  become  with 
Valerie  Duplessis.  She  is  in  herself  so  charming  in  her  com- 
bination of  petulant  wilfulness  and  guileless  naivete'  that  she 
might  sit  as  a  model  for  one  of  your  exquisite  heroines.  Her 
father,  who  is  in  great  favor  at  Court,  had  tickets  for  the  Salle 
des  Etats  of  the  Louvre  to-day,  when,  as  the  journals  will  tell 
you,  the  results  of  the  plebiscite  were  formally  announced  to 
the  Emperor,  and  I  accompanied  him  and  Valerie.  I  felt,  on 
entering  the  hall,  as  if  J  had  been  living  for  months  in  an 


342  THE    PARISIANS. 

atmosphere  of  false  rumors,  for  those  I  chiefly  meet  in  the 
circles  of  artists  and  men  of  letters,  and  the  wits  and  flaneurs 
who  haunt  such  circles,  are  nearly  all  hostile  to  the  Emperor. 
They  agree,  at  least,  in  asserting  the  decline  of  his  popularity, 
the  failure  of  his  intellectual  powers  ;  in  predicting  his  down- 
fall, deriding  the  notion  of  a  successor  in  his  son.  Well,  I 
know  not  how  to  reconcile  these  statements  with  the  spectacle 
I  have  beheld  to-day. 

"  In  the  chorus  of  acclamation  amidst  which  the  Emperor 
entered  the  hall,  it  seemed  as  if  one  heard  the  voice  of  the 
France  he  had  just  appealed  to.  If  the  Fates  are  really  weav- 
ing woe  and  shame  in  his  woof,  it  is  in  hues  which,  to  mortal 
eyes,  seem  brilliant  with  glory  and  joy. 

"  You  will  read  the  address  of  the  President  of  the  Corps 
Legislatif  ;  I  wonder  how  it  will  strike  you.  I  own  fairly  that 
me  it  wholly  carried  away.  At  each  sentiment  I  murmured 
to  myself,  'Is  not  this  true?  And,  if  true,  are  France  and  human 
nature  ungrateful  ? ' 

' '  It  is  now/  said  the  President,  '  eighteen  years  since 
France,  wearied  with  confusion,  and  anxious  for  security,  con- 
fiding in  your  genius  and  the  Napoleonic  dynasty,  placed  in 
your  hands,  together  with  the  Imperial  Crown,  the  authority 
which  the  public  necessity  demanded.'  Then  the  address 
proceeded  to  enumerate  the  blessings  that  ensued  :  social  order 
speedily  restored,  the  welfare  of  all  classes  of  society  promoted, 
advances  in  commerce  and  manufactures  to  an  extent  hitherto 
unknown.  Is  not  this  true  ?  And  if  so,  are  you,  noble  daughter 
of  France,  ungrateful  ? 

"  Then  came  words  which  touched  me  deeply — me,  who, 
knowing  nothing  of  politics,  still  feel  the  link  that  unites  Art  to 
Freedom  :  '  But  from  the  first  your  Majesty  has  looked  for- 
ward to  the  time  when  this  concentration  of  power  would  no 
longer  correspond  to  the  aspirations  of  a  tranquil  and  reassured 
country,  and,  foreseeing  the  progress  of  modern  society,  you 
proclaimed  that  "  Liberty  must  be  the  crowning  of  the  edi- 
fice.'" Passing  then  over  the  previous  gradual  advances  in 
popular  government,  the  President  came  to  the  'present  self- 
abnegation,  unprecedented  in  history,'  and  to  the  vindication 
of  that  plebiscite  which  I  have  heard  so  assailed,  viz.,  Fidelity 
to  the  great  principle  upon  which  the  throne  was  founded,  re- 
quired that  so  important  a  modification  of  a  power  bestowed 
by  the  people  should  not  be  made  without  the  participation  of 
the  people  themselves.  Then,  enumerating  the  millions  who 
had  welcomed  the  new  form  pf  government,  the  President 


THE    PARISIANS.  343 

paused  a  second  or  two,  as  if  with  suppressed  emotion,  and 
every  one  present  held  his  breath,  till,  in  a  deeper  voice,  through 
which  there  ran  a  quiver  that  thrilled  through  the  hall,  he  con- 
cluded with  :  '  France  is  with  you  ;  France  places  the  cause  of 
liberty  under  the  protection  of  your  dynasty  and  the  great 
bodies  of  the  State.'  Is  France  with  him  ?  I  know  not  ;  but 
if  the  malcontents  of  France  had  been  in  the  hall  at  that  mo- 
ment, I  believe  they  would  have  felt  the  power  of  that  wonder- 
ful sympathy  which  compels  all  the  hearts  in  great  audiences  to 
beat  in  accord,  and  would  have  answered.  '  It  is  true.' 

"  All  eyes  now  fixed  on  the  Emperor,  and  I  noticed  few  eyes 
V'hich  were  not  moist  with  tears.  You  know  that  calm,  unre- 
vealing  face  of  his — a  face  which  sometimes  disappoints  ex- 
pectation. But  there  is  that  in  it  which  I  have  seen  in  no 
other,  but  which  I  can  imagine  to  have  been  common  to  the 
Romans  of  old,  the  dignity  that  arises  from  self-control,  an  ex- 
pression which  seems  removed  from  the  elation  of  joy,  the  de- 
pression of  sorrow,  not  unbecoming  to  one  who  has  known 
great  vicissitudes  of  Fortune,  and  is  prepared  alike  for  her 
frowns  or  her  smiles. 

"  I  had  looked  at  that  face  while  M.  Schneider  was  reading 
the  address  ;  it  moved  not  a  muscle,  it  might  have  been  a  face 
of  marble.  Even  when  at  moments  the  words  were  drowned 
in  applause,  and  the  Empress,  striving  at  equal  composure, 
still  allowed  us  to  see  a  movement  of  her  eyelids,  a  tremble  on 
her  lips.  The  boy  at  his  right,  heir  to  his  dynasty,  had  -his 
looks  fixed  on  the  President,  as  if  eagerly  swallowing  each 
word  in  the  address,  save  once  or  twice,  when  he  looked  round 
the  hall  curiously,  and  with  a  smile,  as  a  mere  child  might  look. 
He  struck  me  as  a  mere  child.  Next  to  the  Prince  was  one  of 
those  countenances  which  once  seen  are  never  to  be  forgotten — 
the  true  Napoleonic  type,  brooding,  thoughtful,  ominous,  beauti- 
ful. But  not  with  the  serene  energy  that  characterizes  the  head  of 
the  first  Napoleon  when  Emperor,  and  wholly  without  the  rest- 
less eagerness  for  action  which  is  stamped  in  the  lean  outline 
of  Napoleon  when  First  Consul :  no  ;  in  Prince  Napoleon,  there 
is  a  beauty  to  which,  as  woman,  I  could  never  give  my  heart  ; 
were  I  a  man,  the  intellect  that  would  not  command  my  trust. 
But,  nevertheless,  in  beauty  it  is  signal,  and  in  that  beauty  the 
expression  of  intellect  is  predominant. 

"  Oh,  dear  Eulalie,  how  I  am  digressing  !  The  Emperor 
spoke  ;  and  believe  me,  dear  Eulalie,  whatever  the  journals  or 
your  compatriots  may  insinuate,  there  is  in  that  man  no  sign 
of  declining  intellect  or  failing  health,  I  care  pot  what  may 


344  THE   PARISIANS. 

be  his  years,  but  that  man  is  in  mind  and  in  health  as  young  as 
Caesar  when  he  crossed  the  Rubicon. 

"  The  old  cling  to  the  past,  they  do  not  go  forward  to  the 
future.  There  was  no  going  back  in  that  speech  of  the  Em- 
peror. There  was  something  grand  and  something  young  in 
the  modesty  with  which  he  put  aside  all  Inferences  to  that 
which  his  Empire  had  done  in  the  past,  and  said  with  a 
simple  earnestness  of  manner  which  I  cannot  adequately 
describe,  : 

"' We  must  more  than  ever  look  fearlessly  forward  to  the 
future.  Who  can  be  opposed  to  the  progressive  march  of  a 
regime  founded  by  a  great  people  in  the  midst  of  political  dis- 
turbance, and  which  now  is  fortified  by  liberty  ?' 

"  As  he  closed,  the  walls  of  that  vast  hall  seemed  to  rock 
with  an  applause  that  must  have  been  heard  on  the  other  side 
of  the  Seine. 

"'Virel'Empereur!' 

"  '  Vive  I'  Impttratiice  ! ' 

' '  Vive  le  Prince  Impe'iial !  ' — and  the  last  cry  was  yet  more 
prolonged  than  the  others,  as  if  to  affirm  the  dynasty. 

"  Certainly  I  can  imagine  no  Court  in  the  old  days  of  chiv- 
alry more  splendid  than  the  audience  in  that  grand  hall  of  the 
Louvre.  To  the  right  of  the  throne  all  the  ambassadors  of  the 
civilized  world  in  the  blaze  of  their  rich  costumes  and  manifold 
orders.  In  the  gallery  at  the  left,  yet  more  behind,  the  dresses 
and  jewels  of  the  denies  d ' honneur  and  of  the  great  officers  of 
State.  And  when  the  Empress  rose  to  depart,  certainly  my 
fancy  cannot  picture  a  more  queenlike  image,  or  one  that 
seemed  more  in  unison  with  the  representation  of  royal  pomp 
and  power.  The  very  dress,  of  a  color  which  would  have  been 
fatal  to  the  beauty  of  most  women  equally  fair,  a  deep  golden 
color  (Valerie  profanely  called  it  buff)  seemed  so  to  suit  the 
splendor  of  the  ceremony  and  the  day;  it  seemed  as  if  that 
stately  form  stood  in  the  midst  of  a  sunlight  reflected  from 
itself.  Day  seemed  darkened  when  that  sunlight  passed  away. 

"  I  fear  you  will  think  I  have  suddenly  grown  servile  to 
the  gauds  and  shows  of  mere  royalty.  I  ask  myself  if  that  be 
so  ;  I  think  not.  Surely  it  is  a  higher  sense  of  greatness  which 
has  been  impressed  on  me  by  the  pageant  of  to-day  :  I  feel  as 
if  there  were  brought  vividly  before  me  the  majesty  of  France, 
through  the  representation  of  the  ruler  she  has  crowned. 
""  I  feel  also  as  if  there,  in  that  hall,  I  found  a  refuge  from  all 
the  warring  contests  in  which  no  two  seem  to  me  in  agreement 
as.  to  the  sort  of  government  to  be  established  in  place  of  the 


THE    PARISIANS.  345 

present.  The  '  Liberty  '  clamored  for  by  one  would  cut  the 
throat  of  the  '  Liberty  '  worshipped  by  another. 

"I  see  a  thousand  phantom  forms  of  LIBERTY,  but  only  one  liv- 
ing symbol  of  ORDER — that  which  spoke  from  a  throne  to-day." 
******* 

Isaura  left  her  letter  uncompleted.  On  the  following  Mon- 
day she  was  present  at  a  crowded  soiree  given  by  M.  Louvier. 
Among  the  guests  were  some  of  the  most  eminent  leaders  of 
the  Opposition,  including  that  vivacious  master  of  sharp  say- 
ings, M.  P. ,  whom  Savarin  entitled  "the  French  Sheridan"; 

if  laws  coHld  be  framed  in  epigrams,  he  would  be  also  Uie 
French  Solon. 

There,  too,  was  Victor  de  Mauleon,  regarded  by  the  Repub- 
lican party  with  equal  admiration  and  distrust.  For  the  dis- 
trust,-he  himself  pleasantly  accounted  in  talk  with  Savarin. 

"  How  can  I  expect  to  be  trusted  ?  I  represent '  Common- 
Sense  ';  every  Parisian  likes  Common-Sense  in  print,  and 
cries  Je  suis  trahi'  when  Common-Sense  is  to  be  put  into 
action." 

A  group  of  admiring  listeners  had  collected  round  one  (per- 
haps the  most  brilliant)  of  those  oratorical  lawyers  by  whom,  in 
France,  the  respect  for  all  law  has  been  so  often  talked  away  ; 
he  was  speaking  of  the  Saturday's  ceremonial  with  eloquent 
indignation.  It  was  a  mockery  to  France  to  talk  of  her  plac- 
ing Liberty  under  the  protection  of  the  Empire. 

There  was  a  flagrant  token  of  the  military  force  under  which 
civil  freedom  was  held  in  the  very  dress  of  the  Emperor  and 
his  insignificant  son  ;  the  first  in  the  uniform  of  a  General  of 
Division  ;  the  second,  forsooth,  in  that  of  a  sous-lieutenant. 
Then  other  Liberal  chiefs  chimed  in  :  "  The  army,"  said  one, 
"was  an  absurd  expense  ;  it  must  be  put  down  ";  "The  world 
was  grown  too  civilized  for  war,"  said  another  ;  "  The  Empress 
was  priest-ridden,"  said  a  third  ;  "  Churches  might  be  tolerated; 
Voltaire  built  a  church,  but  a  church  simply  to  the  God  of 
Nature,  not  of  priestcraft," — and  so  on. 

Isaura,  whom  any  sneer  at  religion  pained  and  revolted,  here 
turned  away  from  the  orators  to  whom  she  had  before  been 
listening  with  earnest  attention,  and  her  eyes  fell  on  the  coun- 
tenance of  De  Mauleon,  who  was  seated  opposite  ;  the  coun- 
tenance startled  her,  its  expression  was  so  angrily  scornful ; 
that  expression,  however,  vanished  at  once  as  De  Mauleon's 
eye  met  her  own,  and  drawing  his  chair  near  to  her,  he  said, 
smiling  :  "  Your  look  tells  me  that  I  almost  frightened  you  by 
the  ill-bred  frankness  with  which  my  face  must  have  betrayed 


346  THE    PARISIANS. 

my  anger  at  hearing  such  imbecile  twaddle  from  men  who  as- 
pire to  govern  our  turbulent  France.  You  remember  that  after 
Lisbon  was  destroyed  by  an  earthquake,  a  quack  advertised 
'pills  against  earthquakes.'  These  messieurs  are  not  so  cun- 
ning as  the  quack  ;  he  did  not  name  the  ingredients  of  his  pills." 

"  But,  M.  de  Mauleon,"  said  Isaura,  "if  you,  being  opposed 
to  the  Empire,  think  so  ill  of  the  wisdom  of  those  who  would 
destroy  it,  are  you  prepared  with  remedies  for  earthquakes 
more  efficacious  than  their  pills  ?  " 

"  I  reply  as  a  famous  English  statesman,  when  in  opposition, 
replied  to  a  somewhat  similar  question  :  '  I  don't  prescribe 
till  I'm  called  in.'  " 

"  To  judge  by  the  seven  millions  and  a  half  whose  votes 
were  announced  on  Saturday,  and  by  the  enthusiasm  with 
which  the  Emperor  was  greeted,  there  is  too  little  fear  of  an 
earthquake  for  a  good  trade  to  the  pills  of  these  messieurs,  or 
for  fair  play  to  the  remedies  you  will  not  disclose  till  called  in." 

"  Ah,  Mademoiselle,  playful  wit  from  lips  not  formed  for 
politics,  makes  me  forget  all  about  Emperors  and  earthquakes. 
Pardon  that  commonplace  compliment  ;  remember  I  am  a 
Frenchman,  and  cannot  help  being  frivolous." 

"  You  rebuke  my  presumption  too  gently.  True,  I  ought 
not  to  intrude  political  subjects  on  one  like  you — I  understand 
so  little  about  them — but  this  is  my  excuse,  I  so  desire  to 
know  more.'* 

M.  de  Mauleon  paused,  and  looked  at  her  earnestly,  with  a 
kindly,  half-compassionate  look,  wholly  free  from  the  imper- 
tinence of  gallantry.  "  Young  poetess,"  he  said  softly,"  you 
care  for  politics  !  Happy,  indeed,  is  he — and  whether  he  suc- 
ceed or  fail  in  his  ambition  abroad,  proud  should  he  be  of  an 
ambition  crowned  at  home — he  who  has  made  you  desire  to 
know  more  of  politics  !  " 

The  girl  felt  the  blood  surge  to  her  temples.  How  could 
she  have  been  so  self-confessed  ?  She  made  no  reply,  nor  did 
M.  de  Mauleon  seem  to  expect  one  ;  with  that  rare  delicacy  of 
high  breeding  v.hich  appears  in  France  to  belong  to  a  former 
generation,  he  changed  his  tone,  and  went  on  as  if  there  had 
been  no  interruption  to  the  question  her  words  implied. 

"  You  think  the  Empire  secure  ;  that  it  is  menaced  by  no 
earthquake  ?  You  deceive  yourself.  The  Emperor  began 
with  a  fatal  mistake,  but  a  mistake  it  needs  many  years  to  dis- 
cover. He  disdained  the  slow,  natural  process  of  adjustment 
between  demand  and  supply,  employer  and  workmen.  He  de- 
sired— no  ignoble  ambition — to  make  Paris  the  wonder  of  the 


THE   PARISIANS.  347 

world,  the  eternal  monument  'of  his  reign.  In  so  doing,  he 
sought  to  create  artificial  modes  of  content  for  revolutionary 
workmen.  Never  has  any  ruler  had  such  tender  heed  of  man- 
ual labor  to  the  disparagement  of  intellectual  culture.  Paris 
is  embellished  ;  Paris  is  the  wonder  of  the  world  :  other  great 
towns  have  followed  its  example  ;  they,  too,  have  their  rows  of 
palaces  and  temples.  Well,  the  time  comes  when  the  magician 
can  no  longer  give  work  to  the  spirits  he  raises  ;  then  they 
must  fall  on  him  and  rend  :  out  of  the  very  houses  he  built  for 
the  better  habitation  of  workmen  will  flock  the  malcontents  who 
cry,  'Down  with  the  Empire  !'  On  the  zrst  of  May  you  wit- 
nessed the  pompous  ceremony  which  announces  to  the  Empire 
a  vast  majority  of  votes,  that  will' be  utterly  useless  to  it  except 
as  food  for  gunpowder  in  the  times  that  are  at  hand.  Seven 
days  before,  on  the  i4th  of  May,  there  was  a  riot  in  the  Fau- 
bourg du  Temple — easily  put  down — you  scarcely  hear  of  it. 
That  riot  was  not  the  less  necessary  to  those  who  would  warn 
the  Empire  that  it  is  mortal.  True,  the  riot  disperses,  but  it 
is  unpunished  :  riot  unpunished  is  a  revolution  begun.  The 
earthquake  is  nearer  than  you  think  ;  and  for  that  earthquake 
what  are  the  pills  yon  quacks  advertise?  They  prate  of  an 
age  too  enlightened  for  war  ;  they  would  mutilate  the  army, 
nay,  disband  it  if  they  could — with  Prussia  next  door  to  France. 
Prussia,  desiring,  not  unreasonably,  to  take  that  place  in  the 
world  which  France  now  holds,  will  never  challenge  France  ; 
if  she  did,  she  would  be  too  much  in  the  wrong  to  find  a  sec- 
ond :  Prussia,  knowing  that  she  has  to  do  with  the  vainest, 
the  most  conceited,  the  rashest  antagonist  that  ever  flourished 
a  rapier  in  the  face  of  a  spadassin — Prussia  will  make  France 
challenge  her. 

"And  how  do  ces  messieurs  deal  with  the  French  army?  Do 
they  dare  say  to  the  ministers,  '  Reform  it'?  Do  they  dare 
say,  '  Prefer  for  men  whose  first  duty  it  is  to  obey,  discipline  to 
equality  ;  insist  on  the  distinction  between  the  officer  and  the 
private,  and  never  confound  it  ;  Prussian  officers  are  well-edu- 
cated gentlemen,  see  that  yours  are '  ?  Oh,  no  ;  they  are  demo- 
crats too  stanch  not  to  fraternize  with  an  armed  mob  ;  they 
content  themselves  with  grudging  an  extra  sou  to  the  Commis- 
sariat, and  winking  atxthe  millions  fraudulently  pocketed  by 
some  '  Liberal  contractor.'  Dieu  de  dieu  !  France  to  be  beaten, 
not  as  at  Waterloo,  by  hosts  combined,  but  in  fair  duel  by  a 
single  foe  !  Oh,  the  shame  !  the  shame  !  But  as  the  French 
army  is  now  organized,  beaten  she  must  be,  if  she  meets  the 
march  of  the  German." 


34§  THE   PARISIANS. 

"  You  appal  me  with  your  sinister  predictions,"  said  Isaura; 
"but,  happily,  there  is  no  sign  of  war.  M.  Duplessis,  who  is  in 
the  confidence  of  the  Emperor,  told  us  only  the  other  day  that 
Napoleon,  on  learning  the  result  of  the  plebiscite,  said  :  '  The 
foreign  journalists  who  have  been  insisting  that  the  Empire 
cannot  coexist  with  free  institutions,  will  no  longer  hint  that  it 
can  be  safely  assailed  from  without.  And  more  than  ever  I 
may  say  L '  Empirf  c'est  la  paix  /" 

Monsieur  de  Mauleon  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "  The  old 
story — Troy  and  the  wooden  horse." 

"  Tell  me,  M.  de  Mauleon,  why  do  you,  who  so  despise  the 
Opposition,  join  with  it  in  opp.osing  the  Empire  ?  " 

"  Mademoiselle,  the  Empire  opposes  me  ;  while  it  lasts  I 
cannot  be  even  a  Dfyutt;  when  it  is  gone,  heaven  knows  what 
I  may  be,  perhaps  Dictator  ;  one  thing  you  may  rely  upon, 
that  I  would,  if  not  Dictator  myself,  support  any  man  who  was 
better  fitted  for  that  task." 

"  Better  fitted  to  destroy  the  liberty  which  he  pretended  to 
fight  for." 

"  Not  exactly  so,"  replied  M.  de  Mauleon  imperturbably  ; 
"  better  fitted  to  establish  a  good  government  in  lieu  of  the  bad 
one  he  had  fought  against,  and  the  much  worse  governments 
that  would  seek  to  turn  France  into  a  madhouse,  and  make  the 
maddest  of  the  inmates  the  mad  doctor  !  "  He  turned  away, 
and  here  their  conversation  ended. 

But  it  so  impressed  Isaura  that  the  same  night  she  concluded 
her  letter  to  Madame  de  Grantmesnil  by  giving  a  sketch  of  its 
substance,  prefaced  by  an  ingenuous  confession  that  she  felt 
less  sanguine  confidence  in  the  importance  of  the  applauses 
which  had  greeted  the  Emperor  at  the  Saturday's  ceremonial, 
and  ending  thus  :  "I  can  but  confusedly  transcribe  the  words 
of  this  singular  *nan,  and  can  give  you  no  notion  of  the  man- 
ner and  the  voice  which  made  them  eloquent.  Tell  me,  can 
there  be  any  truth  in  his  gloomy  predictions  ?  I  try  not  to 
think  so,  but  they  seem  to  rest  over  that  brilliant  hall  of  the 
Louvre  like  an  ominous  thundercloud." 


CHAPTER  II. 

THE  Marquis  de  Rochebriant  was  seated  in  his  pleasant 
apartment,  glancing  carelessly  at  the  envelopes  of  many  notes  and 
letters  lying  yet  unopened  on  his  breakfast  table.  He  had  risen 
late  at  noon,  for  he  had  not  gone  to  bed  till  dawn.  The  night  had 


THE    PARISIANS.  349 

been  spent  at  his  club,  over  the  card-table — by  no  means  to  the 
pecuniary  advantage  of  the  Marquis.  The  reader  will  have 
learned  through  the  conversation  recorded- in  a  former  chapter, 
between  De  Mauleon  and  Enguerrand  de  Vandemar,  that  the 
austere  Seigneur  Breton  had  become  a  fast  viveur  oi  Paris.  He 
had  long  since  spent  the  remnant  of  Louvier's  premium  of 
;£iooo,  and  he  owed  a  year's  interest.  For  this  last  there  was 
an  excuse — M.  Collot,  the  contractor  to  whom  he  had  been 
advised  to  sell  the  yearly  fall  of  his  forest-trees,  had  removed 
the  trees,  but  had  never  paid  a  sou  beyond  the  preliminary  de- 
posit ;  so  that  the  revenue,  out  of  which  the  mortgagee  should 
be  paid  his  interest,  was  rfot  forthcoming.  Alain  had  instruct- 
ed M.  Hebert  to  press  the  contractor  ;  the  contractor  had  re- 
plied, that  if  not  pressed  he  could  soon  settle  all  claims  ;  if 
pressed  he  must  declare  himself  bankrupt.  The  Chevalier  de 
Finisterre  had  laughed  at  the  alarm  which  Alain  conceived 
when  he  first  found  himself  in  the  condition  of  debtor  for  a 
sum  he  could  not  pay,  creditor  for  a  sum  he  could  not  recover. 

"  Bagatelle  ! "  said  the  Chevalier.  "  Tschu  !  Collot,  if  you 
give  him  time,  is  as  safe  as  the  Bank  of  France,  and  Louvier 
knows  it.  Louvier  will  not  trouble  you- — Louvier,  the  best  fel- 
low in  the  world !  I'll  call  on  him  and  explain  matters." 

It  is  to  be  presumed  that  the  Chevalier  did  so  explain  ;  for 
though  both  at  the  first,  and  quite  recently  at  the  second  default  of 
payment,  Alain  received  letters  from  M.  Louvier's  professional 
agent,  as  reminders  of  interest  due,  and  as  requests  for  its  pay- 
ment, the  Chevalier  assured  ~TT1m  that  these  applications  were 
formalities  of  convention  ;  that  Louvier,  in  fact,  knew  nothing 
about  them  ;  and  when  dining  with  the  great  financier  himself, 
and  cordially  welcomed  and  called  "Moncher"  Alain  had  taken 
him  aside  and  commenced  explanation  and  excuse,  Louvier 
cut  him  short,  "  Bah  !  don't  mention  such  trifles.  There  is 
such  a  thing  as  business — that  concerns  my  agent ;  such  a  thing 
as  friendship — that  concerns  me.  Allez  !  " 

Thus  M.  de  Rochebriant,  confiding  in  debtor  and  in  creditor, 
had  suffered  twelve  months  to  glide  by  without  much  heed  of 
either,  and  more  than  lived  up  to  an  income  amply  sufficient 
indeed  for  the  wants  of  an  ordinary  bachelor,  but  needing  more 
careful  thrift  than  could  well  be  expected  from  the  head  of  one 
of  the  most  illustrious  houses  in  France,  cast  so  young  into  the 
vortex  of  the  most  expensive  capital  in  the  world. 

The  poor  Marquis  glided  into  the  grooves  that  slant  down- 
ward, much  as  the  French  Marquis  of  tradition  was  wont  to 
slide  ;  not  that  he  appeared  to  live  extravagantly,  but  he  needed 


350  THE    PARISIANS. 

all  he  had  for  his  pocket-money,  and  had  lost  that  dread  of 
being  in  debt  which  he  had  brought  up  from  the  purer  atmo- 
sphere of,Bretagne. 

But  there  were  some  debts  which,  of  course,  a  Rochebriant 
must  pay — debts  of  honor — and  Alain  had,  on  the  previous 
night,  incurred  such  a  debt,  and  must  pay  it  that  day.  He  had 
been  strongly  tempted,  when  the  debt  rose  to  the  figure  it  had 
attained,  to  risk  a  change  of  luck  ;  but  whatever  his  imprudence, 
he  was  incapable  of  dishonesty.  If  the  luck  did  not  change, 
and  he  lost  more,  he  would  be  without  means  to  meet  his  obli- 
gations. As  the  debt  now  stood,  he  calculated  that  he  could 
just  discharge  it  by  the  sale  of  his  co'upe  and  horses.  It  is  no 
wonder  he  left  his  letters  unopened,  however  charming  they 
might  be  ;  he  was  quite  sure  they  would  contain  no  check 
which  would  enable  him  to  pay  his  debt  and  retain  his  equipage. 

The  door  opened,  and  the  valet  announced  M.  le  Chevalier 
de  Finisterre — a  man  with  smooth  countenance  and  air  distin- 
gue", a  pleasant  voice  and  perpetual  smile. 

"  Well,  mon  cher"  cried  the  Chevalier,  "  I  hope  that  you  re- 
covered the  favor  of  Fortune  before  you  quitted  her  green 
table  last  night.  When  I  left  she  seemed  very  cross  with  you." 

"And  so  continued  to  the  end,"  answered  Alain,  with  well- 
simulated  gayety — much  too  bon  gentil/iomme  to  betray  rage  or 
anguish  for  pecuniary  loss. 

'*  After  all,"  said  De  Finisterre,  lighting  his  cigarette,  "  the 
uncertain  goddess  could  not  do  you  much  harm  ;  the  stakes 
were  small,  and  your  adversary,  the  Prince,  never  goes  double 
or  quits." 

"  Nor  I  either.  '  Small,'  however,  is  a  word  of  relative  im- 
port;  the  stakes  might  be  small  to  you,  to  me  large.  Entre 
nous,  cher  ami,  I  am  at  the  end  of  my  purse,  and  I  have  only 
this  consolation — I  am  cured  of  play  :  not  that  I  leave  the 
complaint,  the  complaint  leaves  me  ;  it  can  no  more  feed  on 
me  than  a  fever  can  feed  on  a  skeleton." 

"  Are  you  serious  ?  " 

"  As  serious  as  a  mourner  who  has  just  buried  his  all." 

"  His  all  ?     Tut,  with  such  an  estate  as  Rochebriant !  " 

For  the  first  time  in  that  talk  Alain's  countenance  became 
overcast. 

"  And  how  long  will  Rochebriant  be  mine  ?  You  know  that 
I  hold  it  at  the  mercy  of  the  mortgagee,  whose  interest  has  not 
been  paid,  and  who  could,  if  he  so  pleased,  issue  notice,  take 
proceedings — that — " 

{iPeste>"  interrupted    De  Finisterre;  "  Louvier  take  pro- 


THE    PARISIANS.  35! 

ceedings  !  Louvier,  the  best  fellow  in  the  world  !  But  don't 
I  see  his  handwriting  on  that  envelope  ?  No  doubt  an  invita- 
tion to  dinner." 

Alain  took  up  the  letter  thus  singled  forth  from  a  miscellany 
of  epistles,  some  in  female  handwritings,  unsealed  but  inge- 
niously twisted  into  Gordtan  knots — some  also  in  female  hand- 
writings, carefully  sealed — others  in  ill-looking  envelopes, 
addressed  in  bold,  legible,  clerklike  caligraphy.  Taken  alto- 
gether, these  epistles  had  a  character  in  common  ;  they  be- 
tokened the  correspondence  of  a  viveur,  regarded  from  the 
female  side  as  young,  handsome,  well-born  ;  on  the  male  side, 
as  a  viveur  who  had  forgotten  to  pay  his  hosier  and  tailor. 

Louvier  wrote  a  small,  not  very  intelligible,  but  very  mascu- 
line hand,  as  most  men  who  think  cautiously  and  act  promptly 
do  write.  The  letter  ran  thus  : 

"  Cher  petit  Marquis "  (at  that  commencement  Alain 
haughtily  raised  his  head  and  bit  his  lips) — • 

"  CHER  PETIT  MARQUIS  : 

"It  is  an  age  since  I  have  seen  you.  No  doubt  my  humble 
soirees  are  too  dull  for  a  beau  seigneur  so  courted.  I  forgive 
you.  Would  I  were  a  beau  seigneur  at  your  age  !  Alas  !  I  am 
only  a  commonplace  man  of  business,  growing  old,  too.  Aloft 
from  the  world  in  which  I  dwell,  you  can  scarcely  be  aware 
that  I  have  embarked  a  great  part  of  my  capital  in  building  spec- 
ulations. There  is  a  Rue  de  Louvier  that  runs  its  drains  right 
through  my  purse.  I  am  obliged  to  call  in  the  moneys  due  to 
me.  My  agent  informs  me  that  I  am  just  7000  louis  short  of 
the  total  I  need — all  other  debts  being  paid  in — and  that  there 
is  a  trifle  more  than  7000  louis  owed  to  me  as  interest  on  my 
hypotheque  on  Rochebriant  ;  kindly  pay  into  his  hands  before 
the  end  of  this  week  that  sum.  You  have  been  too  lenient 
to  Collot,  who  must  owe  you  more  than  that.  Send  agent  to 
him.  Z>/iW/to  trouble  you,  and  am  au  cttsespoir  to  think  that 
my  own  pressing  necessities  compel  me  to  urge  you  to  take  so 
much  trouble.  Mais  que  faire  ?  The  Rue  de  Louvier  stops 
the  way,  and  I  must  leave  it  to  my  agent  to  clear  it. 

"  Accept  all  my  excuses,  with  the  assurance  of  my  senti- 
ments the  most  cordial.  PAUL  LOUVIER." 

Alain  tossed  the  letter  to  De  Finisterre.  "  Read  that  from 
the  best  fellow  in  the  world." 

The  Chevalier  laid  down  his  cigarette  and  read.  "Diable  /" 
he  said,  when  he  returned  the  letter  and  resumed  the  cigarette. 


352  THE  .PARISIANS. 

"Diable!  Louvier  must  be  much  pressed  for  money,  or  he  would 
not  have  written  in  this  strain.  What  does  it  matter  ?  .  Collot 
owes  you  more  than  7000  louis.  Let  your  lawyer  get  them, 
and  go  to  sleep  with  both  ears  on  your  pillow." 

"  Ah  !  you  think  Collot  can  pay  if  he  will  ? " 

"  Ma  foi!  did  not  M.  Gandrin  tell  you  that  M.  Collot  was 
safe  to  buy  your  wood  at  more  money  than  any  one  else  would 
give  ?  " 

"Certainly,"  said  Alain,  comforted.  "Gandrin  left  that 
impression  on  my  mind.  I  will  set  him  on  the  man.  All  will 
come  right,  I  dare  say  :  but  if  it  does  not  come  right,  what 
would  Louvier  do  ?  " 

"  Louvier  do  !"  answered  Finisterre  reflectively.  "Well,  do 
you  ask  my  opinion  and  advice  ?  " 

"  Earnestly,  I  ask." 

"  Honestly,  then,  I  answer.  lam  a  little  on  the  Bourse  my- 
self— most  Parisians  are.  Louvier  has  made  a  gigantic  specu- 
lation in  this  new  street,  and  with  so  many  other  irons  in  the 
fire  he  must  want  all  the  money  he  can  get  at.  I  dare  say 
that  if  you  do  not  pay  him  what  you  owe,  he  must  leave  it  to 
his  agent  to  take  steps  for  announcing  the  sale  of  Rochebriant. 
But  he  detests  scandal  ;  he  hates  the  notion  of  being  severe  ; 
rather  than  that,  in  spite  of  his  difficulties,  he  will  buy  Roche- 
briant of  you  at  a  better  price  than  it  can  command  at  public 
sale.  Sell  it  to  him.  Appeal  to  him  to  act  generously,  and 
you  will  flatter  him.  -You  will  get  more  than  the  old  place  is 
worth.  Invest  the  surplus  ;  live  as  you  have  done  or  better  ; 
and  marry  an  heiress.  Morbleu  !  a  Marquis  de  Rochebriant,  if 
he  were  sixty  years  old,  would  rank  high  in  the  matrimonial 
market.  The  more  the  democrats  have  sought  to  impoverish 
titles  and  laugh  down  historical  names,  the  more  do  rich  demo- 
crat fathers-in-law  seek  to  decorate  their  daughters  with  titles 
and  give  their  grandchildren  the  heritage  of  historical  names. 
You  look  shocked, pauvre  ami.  Let  us  hope,  then,  that  Collot 
will  pay.  Set  your  dog — I  mean  your  lawyer — at  him  ;  seize 
him  by  the  throat !  " 

Before  Alain  had  recovered  from  the  stately  silence  with 
which  he  had  heard  this  very  practical  counsel,  the  valet  again 
appeared,  and  ushered  in  M.  Frederic  Lemercier. 

There  was  no  cordial  acquaintance  between  the  visitors. 
Lemercier  was  chafed  at  finding  himself  supplanted  in  Alain's 
intimate  companionship  by  so  new  a  friend,  and  De  Finisterre 
affected  to  regard  Lemercier  as  a  would-be  exquisite  of  low 
birth  and  bad  taste. 


THE    PARISIANS.  353 

Alain,  too,  was  a  little  discomposed  at  the  sight  of  Lemer- 
cier,  remembering  the  wise  cautions  which  that  old  college 
friend  had  wasted  on  him  at  the  commencement  of  his  Paris- 
ian career,  and  smitten  with  vain  remorse  that  the  cautions  had 
been  so  arrogantly  slighted. 

It  was  with  some  timidity  that  he  extended  his  hand  to 
Frederic,  and  he  was  surprised  as  well  as  moved  by  the  more 
than  usual  warmth  with  which  it  was  grasped  by  the  friend  he 
had  long  neglected.  Such  affectionate  greeting  was  scarcely 
in  keeping  with  the  pride  which  characterized  Frederic  Lemer- 
cier. 

"Afa  foi  /"  said  the  Chevalier,  glancing  towards  the  clock, 
"how  time  flies  !  I  had  no  idea  it  was  so  late.  I  must  leave 
you  now,  my  dear  Rochebriant.  Perhaps  we  shall  meet  at  the 
club  later — I  dine  there  to-day.  Au plaisir,  M.  Lemercier." 


CHAPTER  III. 

WHEN  the  door  had  closed  on  the  Chevalier,  Frederic's 
countenance  became  very  grave.  Drawing  his  chair  near  to 
Alain,  he  said  :  "  We  have  not  seen  much  of  each  other  lately — 
nay,  no  excuses  ;  I  am  well  aware  that  it  could  scarcely  be 
otherwise.  Paris  has  grown  so  large  and  so  subdivided  into 
sets,  that  the  best  friends  belonging  to  different  sets  become 
as  divided  as  if  the  Atlantic  flowed  between  them.  I  come  to- 
day in  consequence  of  something  1  have  just  heard  from 
Duplessis.  Tell  me  have  you  got  the  money  for  the  wood  you 
sold  to  M.  Collot  a  year  ago  ? " 

"  No,"  said  Alain  falteringly. 

"  Good  heavens  !  none  of  it  ?  " 

"  Only  the  deposit  of  ten  per  cent.,  which  of  course  I  spent, 
for  it  formed  the  greater  part  of  my  income.  What  of  Collot  ? 
Is  he  really  unsafe  ?  " 

"  He  is  ruined,  and  has  fled  the  country.  His  flight  was  the 
talk  of  the  Bdurse  this  morning.  Duplessis  told  me  of  it." 

Alain's  face  paled.  "  How  is  Louvier  to  be  paid  ?  Read 
that  letter  ! " 

Lemercier  rapidly  scanned  his  eye  over  the  contents  of 
Louvier's  letter. 

"  It  is  true,  then,  that,  you  owe  this  rnan  a  year's  interest — 
more  than  7000  louis  ?  " 

"  Somewhat  more — yes.  But  that  is  not  the  first  care  that 
troubles  me — Rochebriant  may  be  lost,  but  with  it  not  my 


354  THE    PARISIANS. 


honor.  I  owe  the  Russian  Prince  300  louis,  lost  to  him  last 
night  at  /carte.  I  must  find  a  purchaser  for  my  coupe"  and 
horses  ;  they  cost  me  600  louis  last  year, — do  you  know  any 
one  who  will  give  me  three  ?  " 

"  Pooh  !  I  will  give  you  six  ;  your  alezan  alone  is  worth 
half  the  money  !  " 

"  My  dear  Frederic,  I  will  not  sell  them  to  you  on  any  ac- 
count. But  you  have  so  many  friends — " 

"Who  would  give  their  soul  to  say,  '  I  bought  these  horses 
of  Rochebriant.'  Of  course  I  do.  Ha!  young  Rameau,  you 
are  acquainted  with  him  ?" 

"  Rameau  !  I  never  heard  of  him  !  " 

"  Vanity  of  vanities,  then  what  is  fame  !  Rameau  is  the 
editor  of  Le  Sens  Commun.  You  read  that  journal  ?  " 

"Yes,  it  has  clever  articles,  and  I  remember  how  I  was  ab- 
sorbed in  the  eloquent  roman  which  appeared  in  it." 

"Ah  !  by  the  Signora  Cieogna,  with  whom  I  think  you  were 
somewhat  smitten  last  year." 

"  Last  year — was  I  ?  How  a  year  can  alter  a  man  !  But 
my  debt  to  the  Prince.  What  has  Le  Sens  Commun  to  do  with 
my  horses  ? " 

"  I  met  Rameau  at  Savarin's  the  other  evening.  He  was 
making  himself  out  a  hero  and  a  martyr  ;  his  coupe  had  been 
taken  from  him  to  assist  in  a  barricade  in  that  senseless  e"mcute 
ten  days  ago  ;  the  coupe  got  smashed,  the  horses  disappeared. 
He  will  buy  one  of  your  horses  and  coupe".  Leave  it  to  me  ! 
I  know  where  to  dispose  of  the  other  two  horses.  At  what 
hour  do  you  want  the  money  ?  " 

"  Before  I  go  to  dinner  at  the  club." 

"  You  shall  have  it  within  two  hours  ;  but  you  must  not  dine 
at  the  club  to-day.  I  have  a  note  from  Duplessis  to  invite  you 
to  dine  with  him  to-day  !  " 

"  Duplessis  !     I  know  so  little  of  him  ! " 

"You  should  know  him  better.  He  is  the  only  man  who 
can  give  you  sound  advice  as  to  this  difficulty  with  Louvier,  and 
he  will  give  it  the  more  carefully  and  zealously  because  he  has 
iliat  enmity  to  Louvier  which  one  rival  financier  has  to  another. 
1  dine  with  him  too.  We  shall  find  an  occasion  to  consult  him 
quietly  ;  he  speaks  of  you  most  kindly.  What  a  lovely  girl  his 
daughter  is  !  " 

"  I  daresay.  Ah  !  I  wish  I  had  been  less  absurdly  fastidious. 
I  wish  I  had  entered  the  army  as  a  private  soldier  six  months 
ago  ;  I  should  have  been  a  corporal  by  this  time.  Still  it  is 
not  too  late.  When  Rochebriant  is  gone,  I  can  yet  say  with 


THE    PARISIANS.  355 

the  Mousquetaire  in  the  mtfodrame  :  '  I  am  rich — I  have  my 
honor  and  my  sword  ! ' ' 

"  Nonsense  !  Rochebriant  shall  be  saved  ;  meanwhile  I 
hasten  to  Rameau.  Au  revoir,  at  the  Hotel  Duplessis — seven 
o'clock." 

Lemercier  went,  and  in  less  than  two  hours  sent  the  Marquis 
bank-notes  for  600  louis,  requesting  an  order  for  the  delivery 
of  the  horses  and  carriage. 

That  order  written  and  signed,  Alain  hastened  to  acquit  him- 
self of  his  debt  of  honor,  and  contemplating  his  probable  ruin 
with  a  lighter  heart,  presented  himself  at  the  Hotel  Du- 
plessis. 

Duplessis  made  no  pretensions  to  vie  with  the  magnificent 
existence  of  Louvier.  His  house,  though  agreeably  situated 
and  flatteringly  styled  the  Hotel  Duplessis,  was  of  moderate 
size,  very  unostentatiously  furnished  ;  nor  was  it  accustomed 
to  receive  the  brilliant,  motley  crowds  which  assembled  in  the 
salons  of  the  elder  financier. 

Before  that  year,  indeed,  Duplessis  had  confined  such  enter- 
tainments as  he  gave  to  quiet  men  of  business,  or  a  few  of  the 
more  devoted  and  loyal  partisans  of  the  Imperial  dynasty  ; 
but  since  Valerie  came  to  live  with  him  he  had  extended  his 
hospitalities  to  wider  and  livelier  circles,  including  some  celeb- 
rities in  the-world  of  art  and  letters  as  well  as  of  fashion.  Of 
the  party  assembled  that  evening  at  dinner  were  Isaura,  with 
the  Signora  Venosta,  one  of  the  Imperial  Ministers,  the  Colonel 
whom  Alain  had  already  met  at  Lemercier's  supper,  Deputes 
(ardent  Imperialists),  and  the  Duchesse  de  Tarascon  ;  these, 
with  Alain  and  Frederic,  made  up  the  party.  The  conversa- 
tion was  not  particularly  gay.  Duplessis  himself,  though  an 
exceedingly  well-read  and  able  man,  had  not  the  genial  accom- 
plishments of  a  brilliant  host.  Constitutionally  grave  and 
habitually  taciturn,  though  there  were  moments  in  which  he 
was  roused  out  of  his  wonted  self  into  eloquence  or  wit,  he 
seemed  to-day  absorbed  in  some  engrossing  train  of  thought. 
The  Minister,  the  Deputes,  and  the  Duchesse  de  Tarascon  talked 
politics,  and  ridiculed  the  trumpery  tmeuteoi  the  i4th  ;  exulted 
in  the  success  of  \\\z.  plebiscite,  and  admitting,  with  indignation, 
the  growing  strength  of  Prussia — and  with  scarcely  less  indig- 
nation, but  more  contempt,  censurirrg  the  selfish  egotism  of 
England  in  disregarding  the  due  equilibrium  of  the  European 
balance  of  power — hinted  at  the  necessity  of  annexing  Belgium 
as  a  set-off  against  the  results  of  Sadowa. 

Alain  found  himself  seated  next  to  Isaura — to  the  woman 


356  THE    PARISIANS. 

who  had  so  captivated  his  eye  and  fancy  on  his  first  arrival  in 
Paris. . 

Remembering  hisjast  conversation  with  Graham  nearly  a 
year  ago,  he  felt  some  curiosity  to  ascertain  whether  the  rich 
Englishman  had  proposed  to  her,  and  if  so,  been  refused  or 
accepted. 

The  first  words  that  passed  between  them  were  trite  enough, 
but  after  a  little  pause  in  the  talk,  Alain  said  : 

"  I  think  Mademoiselle  and  myself  have  an  acquaintance  in 
common,  Monsieur  Vane,  a  distinguished  Englishman.  Do 
you  know  if  he  be  in  Paris  at  present  ?  I  have  not  seen  him 
for  many  months." 

"  I  believe  he  is  in  London  ;  at  least,  Colonel  Morley  met 
the  other  day  a  friend  of  his  who  said  so." 

Though  Isaura  strove  to  speak  in  a  tone  of  indifference, 
Alain's  ear  detected  a  ring  of  pain  in  her  voice  ;  and  watching 
her  countenance,  he  was  impressed  with  a  saddened  change  in 
its  expression.  He  was  touched,  and  his  curiosity  was  mingled 
with  a  gentler  interest  as  he  said  :  "  When  I  last  saw  M.  Vane 
I  should  have  judged  him  to  be  too  much  under  the  spell  of 
an  enchantress  to  remain  long  without  the  pale  of  the  circle 
she  draws  around  her." 

Isaura  turned  her  face  quickly  towards  the  speaker,  and  her 
lips  moved,  but  she  said  nothing  audibly. 

"Can  there  have  been  quarrel  or  misunderstanding?" 
thought  Alain  ;  and  after  that  question  his  heart  asked  itself  : 
"  Supposing  Isaura  were  free,  her  affections  disengaged,  could 
he  wish  to  woo  and  to  win  her? "and  his  heart  answered: 
"Eighteen  months  ago  thou  wert  nearer  to  her  than  now. 
Thou  wert  removed  from  her  forever  when  thou  didst  accept 
the  world  as  a  barrier  between  you  ;  then,  poor  as  thou  wert, 
thou  wouldst  have  preferred  her  to  riches.  Thou  wert  then 
sensible  only  of  the  ingenuous  impulses  of  youth,  but  the 
moment  thou  saidst,  '  I  am  Rochebriant,  and  having  once 
owned  the  claims  of  birth  and  station,  I  cannot  renounce  them 
for  love,'  Isaura  became  but  a  dream.  Now  that  ruin  stares 
thee  in  the  face  ;  now  that  thou  must  grapple  with  the  sternest 
difficulties  of  adverse  fate ;  thou  hast  lost  the  poetry  of  senti- 
ment which  could  alone  give  to  that  dream  the  colors  and  the 
form  of  human  life."  He  could  not  again  think  of  that  fair 
creature  as  a  prize  that  he  might  even  dare  to  covet.  And  as 
he  met  her  inquiring  eyes,  and  saw  her  quivering  lip,  he  felt 
instinctively  that  Graham  was  dear  to  her,  and  that  the  tender 


THti   PARISIANS.  3$  7 

interest  with  which  she  inspired  himself  was  untroubled  by  one 
pang  of  jealousy.  He  resumed  : 

"  Yes,  the  last  time  I  saw  the  Englishman  he  spoke  with 
such  respectful  homage  of  one  lady,  whose  hand  he  would 
deem  it  the  highest  reward  of  ambition  to  secure,  that  I  can- 
not but  feel  deep  compassion  for  him  if  that  ambition  has 
been  foiled ;  and  thus  only  do  I  account  for  his  absence  from 
Paris." 

"You  are  an  intimate  friend  of  Mr.  Vane's?" 

"  No,  indeed,  I  have  not  that  honor  ;  our  acquaintance  is 
but  slight,  but  it  impressed  me  with  the  idea  of  a  man  of 
vigorous  intellect,  frank  temper,  and  perfect  honor." 

Isaura's  face  brightened  with  the  joy  we  feel  when  we  hear 
the  praise  of  those  we  love. 

At  this  moment,  Duplessis,  who  had  been  observing  the 
Italian  and  the  young  Marquis,  for  the  first  time  during  dinner, 
broke  silence. 

•'Mademoiselle,"  he  said,  addressing  Isaura  across  the 
table,  "I  hope  I  have  not  been  correctly  informed  that  your 
literary  triumph  has  induced  you  to  forego  the  career  in  which 
all  the  best  judges  concur  that  your  successes  would  be  no  less 
brilliant  ;  surely  one  art  does  not  exclude  another." 

Elated  by  Alain's  report  of  Graham's  words,  by  the  convic- 
tion that  these  words  applied  to  herself,  and  by  the  thought 
that  her  renunciation  of  the  stage  removed  a  barrier  between 
them,  Isaura  answered,  with  a  sort  of  enthusiasm  : 

"  I  know  not,  M.  Duplessis,  if  one  art  excludes  another  ;  if 
there  be  desire  to  excel  in  each.  But  I  have  long  lost  all  de- 
sire to  excel  in  the  art  you  refer  to,  and  resigned  all  idea  of  the 
career  in  which  it  opens." 

"So  M.  Vane  told  me,"  said  Alain,  in  a  whisper. 

"  When  ? " 

"  Last  year — on  the  day  that  he  spoke  in  terms  of  admiration 
so  merited  of  the  lady  whom  M.  Duplessis  had  just  had  the 
honor  to  address." 

All  this  while,  Valerie,  who  was  seated  at  the  further  end  of 
the  table  beside  the  Minister,  who  had  taken  her  in  to  dinner, 
had  been  watching,  with  eyes,  the  anxious,  tearful  sorrow  of 
which  none  but  her  father  had  noticed,  the  low-voiced  confi- 
dence between  Alain  and  the  friend  whom  till  that  day  she 
had  so  enthusiastically  loved.  Hitherto  she  had  been  answer- 
ing in  monosyllables  all  attempts  of  the  great  man  to  draw  her 
into  conversation  ;  but  now,  observing  how  Isaura  blushed 
and  looked  down,  that  strange  faculty  in  women,  which  >r* 


358  THE  PARISIANS. 

men  call  dissimulation,  and  which  in  them  is  truthfulness  to 
their  own  nature,  enabled  her  to  carry  off  the  sharpest  anguish 
she  had  ever  experienced  by  a  sudden  burst  of  levity  of  spirit. 
She  caught  up  some  commonplace  the  Minister  had  adapted 
to  what  he  considered  the  poverty  of  her  understanding,  with 
a  quickness  of  satire  which  startled  that  grave  man,  and  he 
gazed  at  her  astonished.  Up  to  that  moment  he  had  secretly 
admired  her  as  a  girl  well  brought  up — as  girls  fresh  from  a 
French  convent  are  supposed  to  be  ;  now,  hearing  her  brilliant 
rejoinder  to  his  stupid  observation,  he  said  inly:  "Dame! 
the  low  birth  of  a  financier's  daughter  shows  itself." 

But,  being  a  clever  man  himself,  her  retort  put  him  on  his 
mettle,  and  he  became,  to  his  own  amazement,  brilliant  him- 
self. With  that  matchless  quickness  which  belongs  to  Paris- 
ians, the  guests  around  him  siezed  the  new  esprit  de conversation 
which  had  been  evoked  between  the  statesman  and  the  child- 
like girl  beside  him  ;  and  as  they  caught  up  the  ball  lightly 
flung  among  them,  they  thought  within  themselves  how  much 
more  sparkling  the  financier's  pretty,  lively  daughter  was  than 
that  dark-eyed  young  muse,  of  whom  all  the  journalists  of 
Paris  were  writing  in  a  chorus  of  welcome  and  applause,  and 
who  seemed  not  to  have  a  word  to  say  worth  listening  to,  ex- 
cepting to  the  handsome  young  Marquis,  whom,  no  doubt,  she 
wished  to  fascinate. 

Valerie  fairly  outshone  Isaura  in  intellect  and  in  wit  ;  and 
neither  Valerie  nor  Isaura  cared,  to  the  value  of  a  bean-straw, 
about  that  distinction.  Each  was  thinking  only  of  the  prize 
which  the  humblest  peasant  women  have  in  common  with  the 
most  brilliantly  accomplished  of  their  sex — the  heart  of  a  man 
beloved. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

ON  the  Continent  generally,  as  we  all  know,  men  do  not  sit 
drinking  wine  together  after  the  ladies  retire,  so  when  the  sig- 
nal was  given  all  the  guests  adjourned  to  the  salon  ;  and  Alain 
quitted  Isaura  to  gain  the  ear  of  the  Duchesse  de  Tarascon. 

"  It  is  long — at  least  long  for  Paris  life,"  said  the  Marquis, 
"since  my  first  visit  to  you,  in  company  with  Enguerrandde  Van- 
demar.  Much  that  you  then  said  rested  on  my  mind,  disturb- 
ing the  prejudices  I  took  from  Bretagne." 

"  I  am  proud  to  hear  it,  my  kinsman." 

"  You  know  that  I  would  have  taken   military  service  undep 


THE    PARISIANS.  359 

the  Emperor,  but  for  the  regulation  which  would  have  com- 
pelled me  to  enter  the  ranks  as  a  private  soldier." 

"  I  sympathize  with  that  scruple  ;  but  you  are  aware  that  the 
Emperor  himself  could  not  have  ventured  to  make  an  excep- 
tion in  your  favor." 

"  Certainly  not.  I  repent  me  of  my  pride  ;  perhaps  I  may 
enlist  still  in  some  regiment  sent  to  Algiers." 

"  No  ;  there  are  other  ways  in  which  a  Rochebriantcan  serve 
a  throne.  There  will  be  an  office  at  Court  vacant  soon,  which 
would  not  misbecome  your  birth." 

"  Pardon  me  ;  a  soldier  serves  his  country,  a  courtier  owns  a 
master  ;  and  I  cannot  take  the  livery  of  the  Emperor,  though  I 
could  wear  the  uniform  of  France." 

"  Your  distinction  is  childish,  my  kinsman,"  said  the  Du- 
chesse  impetuously.  "You  talk  as  if  the  Emperor  had  an  inter- 
est apart -from  the  nation.  I  tell  you  that  he  has  not  a  corner 
of  his  heart,  not  even  one  reserved  for  his  son  and  his  dynasty, 
in  which  the  thought  of  France  does  not  predominate." 

"  I  do  not  presume,  Madame  la  Duchesse,  to  question  the 
truth  of  what  you  say  ;  but  I  have  no  reason  to  suppose  that 
the  same  thought  does  not  predominate  in  the  heart  of  the 
Bourbon.  The  Bonrbon  would  be  the  first  to  say  to  me  :  "  If 
France  needs  your  sword  against  her  foes,  let  it  not  rest  in  the 
scabbard."  But  would  the  Bourbon  say:  'The  place  of  a 
Rochebriant  is  among  the  valetaille  of  the  Corsican's  suc- 
cessor '  ?  " 

"Alas  for  poor  France  !  "  said  the  Duchesse  ;  "and  alas  for 
men  like  you,  my  proud  cousin,  if.  the  Corsican's  successors  or 
successor  be — " 

"  Henry  V.  ? "  interrupted  Alain,  with  a  brightening  eye. 

"  Dreamer  !  No  ;  some  descendant  of  the  mob-kings  who 
gave  Bourbons  and  nobles  to  the  guillotine." 

While  the  Duchesse  and  Alain  were  thus  conversing,  Isaura 
had  seated  herself  by  Valerie,  and,  unconscious  of  the  offence 
she  had  given,  addressed  her  in  those  pretty,  caressing  terms 
with  which  young  lady-friends  are  wont  to  compliment  each 
other;  but  Vale'rie  answered  curtly  or  sarcastically,  and  turned 
aside  to  converse  with  the  Minister.  A  few  minutes  more  and 
the  party  began  to  break  up.  Lemercier,  however,  detained 
Alain,  whispering,  "  Duplessis  will  see  us  on  your  business  so 
soon  as  the  other  guests  have  gone." 


360  THE    PARISIANS. 


CHAPTER  V. 

"MONSIEUR  LE  MARQUIS,"  said  Duplessis,  when  the  salon 
was  cleared  of  all  but  himself  and  the  two  friends.  "  Lemer- 
cier  has  confided  to  me  the  state  of  your  affairs  in  connection 
with  M.  Louvier,  and  flatters  me  by  thinking  my  advice  may 
be  of  some  service  ;  if  so,  command  me." 

"  I  shall  most  gratefully  accept  your  advice,"  answered 
Alain,  "but  I  fear  my  condition  defies  even  your  ability  and 
skill." 

"  Permit  me  to  hope  not,  and  to  ask  a  few  necessary  ques- 
tions. M.  Louvier  has  constituted  himself  your  sole  mort- 
gagee ;  to  what  amount,  at  what  interest,  and  from  what  annual 
proceeds  is  the  interest  paid  ?  " 

Herewith  Alain  gave  details  already  furnished  to  the  reader. 
Duplessis  listened,  and  noted  down  the  replies. 

"  I  see  it  all,"  he  said,  when  Alain  had  finished.  "  M.  Lou- 
vier had  predetermined  to  possess  himself  of  your  estate  ;  he 
makes  himself  sole  mortgagee  at  a  rate  of  interest  so  low  that 
I  tell  you  fairly,  at  the  present  value  of  money,  I  doubt  if  you 
could  find  any  capitalist  who  would  accept  the  transfer  of  the 
mortgage  at  the  same  rate.  This  is  not  like  Louvier,  unless  he 
had  an  object  to  gain,  and  that  object  is  your  land.  The  rev- 
enue from  your  estate  is  derived  chiefly  from  wood,  out  of 
which  the  interest  due  to  Louvier  is  to  be  paid.  M.  Gandrin, 
in  a  skilfully  guarded  letter,  encourages  you  to  sell  the  wood 
from  your  forests  to  a  man  -who  offers  you  several  thousand 
francs  more  than  it  could  command  from  customary  buyers. 
I  say  nothing  against  M.  Gandrin,  but  every  man  who  knows 
Paris  as  I  do  knows  that  M.  Louvier  can  put,  and  has  put,  a 
great  deal  of  money  into  M.  Gandrin's  pocket.  The  purchaser 
of  your  wood  does  not  pay  more  than  his  deposit,  and  has  just 
left  the  country  insolvent.  Your  purchaser,  M.  Collot,  was  an 
adventurous  speculator  ;  he  would  have  bought  anything  at  any 
price,  provided  he  had  time  to  pay ;  if  his  speculations  had 
been  lucky  he  would  have  paid.  M.  Louvier  knew,  as  I  knew, 
that  M.  Collot  was  a  gambler,  and  the  chances  were  that  he 
would  not  pay.  M.  Louvier  allows  a  year's  interest  on  his 
hypotheque  to  become  due — notice  thereof  duly  given  to  you  by 
his  agent — now  you  come  under  the  operation  of  the  law.  Of 
course,  you  know  what  the  law  is  ?  " 

"  Not  exactly,"  answered  Alain,  feeling  frostbitten  by  the  con- 
gealing words  of  his  counsellor;  "but  I  take  it  for  granted 


THE    PARISIANS.  361 

that  if  I  cannot  pay  the   interest  of  a  sum  borrowed  on  my 
property,  that  property  itself  is  forfeited." 

''No,  not  quite  that;  the  law  is  mild.  If  the  interest 
which  should  be  paid  half-yearly  remains  unpaid  at  the 
end  of  a  year,  the  mortgagee  has  a  right  to  be  impatient,  has 
he  not  ? " 

"Certainly. he  has." 

"  Well  then,  on  fait  un  commandement  tendant  a  saisie  immobi- 
lity e — viz.:  the  mortgagee  gives  a  notice  that  the  property  shall' 
be  put  up  for  sale.  Then  it  is  put  up  for  sale,  and  in  most 
cases  the  mortgagee  buys  it  in.  Here,  certainly,  no  competitors 
in  the  mere  business  way  would  vie  with  Louvier  ;  the  mort- 
gage at  sYz  per  cent,  covers  more  than  the  estate  is  appa- 
rently worth.  Ah  !  but  stop,  M.  le  Marquis  ;  the  notice  is 
not  yet  served ;  the  whole  process  would  take  six  months 
from  the  day  it  is  served  to  the  taking  possession  after  the  sale  ; 
in  the  mean  while,  if  you  pay  the  interest  due,  the  action  drops. 
Courage,  M.  le  Marquis  !  Hope  yet,  if  you  condescend  to  call 
me  friend." 

"And  me,"  cried  Lemercier  ;  "I  will  sell  out  of  my  railway 
shares  to-morrow — see  to  it,  Duplessis — enough  to  pay  off  the 
damnable  interest.  See  to  it,  mon  ami." 

"  Agree  to  that,  M.  le  Marquis,  and  you  are  safe  for  another 
year,"  said  Duplessis,  folding  up  the  paper  on  which  he  had 
made  his  notes,  but  fixing  on  Alain  quiet  eyes  half  concealed 
under  dropping  lids. 

"  Agree  to  that  !  "  cried  Rochebriant,  rising  ;  "Agree  to 
allow  even  my  worst  enemy  to  pay  for  me  moneys  I  could 
never  hope  to  repay  ;  agree  to  allow  the  oldest  and  most  con- 
fiding of  my  friends  to  do  so — M.  Duplessis,  never  !  If  I  car- 
ried the  porter's  knot  of  an  Auvergnat,  I  should  still  remain 
gentilhomme  and  Breton" 

Duplessis,  habitually  the  driest  of  men,  rose  with  a  moistened 
eye  and  flushing  cheek  ;  "  Monsieur  le  Marquis,  vouchsafe  me 
the  honor  to  shake  hands  with  you.  I,  too,  am  by  descent 
gentilhomme,  by  profession  a  speculator  on  the  Bourse.  In  both 
capacities  I  approve  the  sentiment  you  have  uttered.  Certainly 
if  our  friend  Frederic  lent  you  7000  louis  or  so  this  year,  it 
would  be  impossible  for  you  even  to  foresee  the  year  in  which 
you  could  repay  it ;  but," — here  Duplessis  paused  a  minute, 
and  then  lowering  the  tone  of  his  voice,  which  had  been  some- 
what vehement  and  enthusiastic,  into  that  of  a  colloquial  good- 
fellowship,  equally  rare  to  the  measured  reserve  of  the  finan- 
cier, he  asked,  with  a  lively  twinkle  of  his  gray  eye,  "  pid  you 


362  THE    PARISIANS. 

never  hear,  Marquis,  of  a  little  encounter  between  me  and  M. 
Louvier  ?  " 

"Encounter  at  arms — does  Louvier  fight?"  asked  Alain 
innocently. 

"  In  his  own  way  he  is  always  fighting  ;  but  I  speak  meta- 
phorically. You  see  this  small  house  of  mine — so  pinched  in 
by  the  houses  next  to  it  that  I  can  neither  get  space  for  a  ball- 
room for  Valerie,  nor  a  dining-room  for  more  than  a  friendly 
party  like  that  which  has  honored  me  to-day.  Eh  bien  !  I 
bought  this  house  a  few  years  ago,  meaning  to  buy  the  one 
next  to  it,  and  throw  the  two  into  one.  I  went  to  the  propri- 
etor of  the  next  house,  who,  as  I  knew,  wished  to  sell.  'Aha,' 
he  thought,  'this  is  the  rich  Monsieur  Duplessis';  and  he 
asked  me  2000  louis  more  than  the  house  was  worth.  We  men 
of  business  cannot  bear  to  be  too  much  cheated  ;  a  little  cheat- 
ing we  submit  to,  much  cheating  raises  our  gall.  Bref — this 
was  on  Monday.  I  offered  the  man  1000  louis  above  the  fair 
price,  and  gave  him  till  Thursday  to  decide.  Somehow  or 
other  Louvier  heard  of  this.  '  Hillo  ! '  says  Louvier,  '  here  is  a 
financier  who  desires  a  hotclto  vie  with  mine  ! '  He  goes  on 
Wednesday  to  my  next-door  neighbor.  '  Friend,  you  want  to 
sell  your  house.  I  want  to  buy — the  price  ?  '  The  proprietor, 
who  does  not  know  him  by  sight,  says :  'It  is  as  good 
as  sold.  M.  Duplessis  and  I  shall  agree.'  'Bah!  What 
sum  did  you  ask  M.  Duplessis?'  He  names  the  sum; 
2000  louis  more  than  he  can  get  elsewhere.  '  But  M. 
Duplessis  will  give  me  the  sum.'  'You  ask  too  little.  I  will 
give  3000.  A  fig  for  M.  Duplessis  !  I  am  Monsieur  Louvier.' 
So  when  I  call  on  Thursday  the  house  is  sold.  I  reconcile 
myself  easily  enough  to  the  loss  of  space  for  a  larger  dining- 
room  ;  but  though  Valerie  was  then  a  child  at  a  convent,  I  was 
sadly  disconcerted  by  the  thought  that  I  could  have  no  salle 
de  bal  ready  for  her  when  she  came  to  reside  with  me.  Well, 
I  say  to  myself,  patience  ;  I  owe  M.  Louvier  a  good  turn  ;  rny 
time  to  pay  him  off  will  come.  It  does  come,  and  very 
soon.  M.  Louvier  buys  an  estate  near  Paris  ;  builds  a  superb 
villa.  Close  to  his  property  is  a  rising  forest  ground  for  sale. 
He  goes  to  the  proprietor  :  says  the  proprietor  to  himself : 
'  The  great  Louvier  wants  this,'  and  adds  5000  louis  to  its  mar- 
ket price.  Louvier,  like  myself,  can't  bear  to  be  cheated  egre- 
giously.  Louvier  offers  2000  louis  more  than  the  man  could 
fairly  get,  and  leaves  him  till  Saturday  to  consider.  I  hear  of 
this  ;  speculators  hear  of  everything,  On  Friday  night  I  go  to 
the  man  and  I  give  him  6000  louis  where  he  had  asked  5000, 


THE    PARISIANS. 

Fancy  Louvier's  face  the  next  day  !  But  there  my  revenge 
only  begins,"  continued  Duplessis,  chuckling  inwardly.  "My 
forest  looks  down  on  the  villa  he  is  building.  I  only  wait  till 
his  villa  is  built,  in  order  to  send  to  my  architect  and  say,  Build 
me  a  villa  at  least  twice  as  grand  as  M.  Louvier's,  then 
clear  away  the  forest  trees,  so  that  every  morning  he  may  see 
my  palace  dwarfing  into  significance  his  own." 

"Bravo  !  "  cried  Lemercier,  clapping  his  hands.  Lemercier 
had  the  spirit  of  party,  and  felt  for  Duplessis,  against  Louvier, 
much  as  in  England  Whig  feels  against  Tory,  or  vice  versa. 

"  Perhaps  now,"  resumed  Duplessis  more  soberly — "  Perhaps 
now,  M.  le  Marquis,  you  may  understand  why  I  humiliate  you 
by  no  sense  of  obligation  if  I  say  that  M.  Louvier  shall  not  be 
the  Seigneur  de  Rochebriant  if  I  can  help  it.  Give  me  a  line 
of  introduction  to  your  Breton  lawyer  and  to  Mademoiselle 
your  aunt  ;  let  me  have  your  letters  early  to-morrow.  I  will 
take  the  afternoon  train.  I  know  not  how  many  days  I  may 
be  absent,  but  I  shall  not  return  till  I  have  carefully  examined 
the  nature  and  conditions  of  your  property.  If  I  see  my  way 
to  save  your  estate,  and  give  a  mauvais  quart  d'heure  to  Lou- 
vier, so  much  the  better  for  you,  M.  le  Marquis  ;  if  I  cannot,  I 
will  say  frankly,  '  Make  the  best  terms  you  can  with  your 
creditor.'  " 

"  Nothing  can  be  more  delicately  generous  than  the  way  you 
put  it,"  said  Alain  ;  "  but  pardon  me,  if  I  say  that  the  pleas- 
antry with  which  you  narrate  your  grudge  against  M.  Louvier 
does  not  answer  its  purpose  in  diminishing  my  sense  of  obliga- 
tion." So,  linking  his  arm  in  Lemercier's,  Alain  made  his 
bow  and  withdrew. 

When  his  guests  had  gone,  Duplessis  remained  seated  in 
meditation — apparently  pleasant  meditation,  for  he  smiled 
while  indulging  it  ;  he  then  passed  through  the  reception- 
rooms  to  one  at  the  far  end  appropriated  to  Valerie  as  a  bou- 
doir or  morning-room,  adjoining  her  bed-chamber  ;  he  knocked 
gently  at  the  door,  and,  all  remaining  silent  within,  he  opened 
it  noiselessly  and  entered.  Valerie  was  reclining  on  the  sofa 
near  the  window,  her  head  drooping,  her  hands  clasped  on  her 
knees.  Duplessis  neared  her  with  tender,  stealthy  steps,  passed 
his  arm  round  her,  and  drew  her  head  towards  his  bosom. 
"Child  !  "  he  murmured  ;  "  my  child  !  my  only  one  !  " 

At  that  soft,  loving  voice,  Valerie  flung  her  arms  round  him, 
and  wept  aloud  like  an  infant  in  trouble.  He  seated  himself 
beside  her,  and  wisely  suffered  her  to  weep  on,  till  her  passion 
had  exhausted  itself ;  he  then  said,  half  fondly,  half  ghidingly  : 


THE    PARISIANS. 

"  Have  you  forgotten  our  conversation  only  three  days  ago  ? 
Have  you  forgotten  that  I  then  drew  forth  the  secret  of  your 
heart  ?  Have  you  forgotten  what  I  promised  you  in  return 
for  your  confidence  ?  And  a  promise  to  you  have  I  ever  yet 
broken  ?  " 

"  Father  !  father  !  I  am  so  wretched,  and  so  ashamed  of 
myself  for  being  wretched  !  Forgive  me.  No,  I  do  not  for- 
get your  promise  ;  but  who  can  promise  to  dispose  of  the  heart 
of  another  ?  And  that  heart  will  never  be  mine.  But  bear 
with  me  a  little,  I  shall  soon  recover." 

"  Valerie,  when  I  made  you  the  promise  you  now  think  I 
cannot  keep,  I  spoke  only  from  that  conviction  of  power  to 
promote  the  happiness  of  a  child  which  nature  implants  in  the 
heart  of  parents  ;  and  it  may  be  also  from  the  experience  of 
my  own  strength  of  will,  since  that  which  I  have  willed  I  have 
always  won.  Now  I  speak  on  yet  surer  ground.  Before  the  year 
is  out  you  shall  be  the  beloved  wife  of  Alain  de  Rochebriant. 
Dry  your  tears  and  smile  on  me,  Valerie.  If  you  will  not  see 
in  me  mother  and  father  both,  I  have  double  love  for  you, 
motherless  child  of  her  who  shared  the  poverty  of  my  youth, 
and  did  not  live  to  enjoy  the  wealth  which  I  hold  as  a  trust  for 
that  heir  to  mine  all  which  she  left  me." 

As  this  man  thus  spoke  you  would  scarcely  have  recognized 
in  him  the  cold,  saturnine  Duplessis,  his  countenance  became  so 
beautified  by  the  one  soft  feeling  which  care  and  contest,  am- 
bition and  money-seeking  had  left .  unaltered  in  his  heart. 
Perhaps  there  is  no  country  in  which  the  love  of  parent  and 
child,  especially  of  father  and  daughter,  is  so  strong  as  it  is 
in  France  ;  even  in  the  most  arid  soil,  among  the  avaricious, 
even  among  the  profligate,  it  forces  itself  into  flower.  Other 
loves  fade  away  :  in  the  heart  of  the  true  Frenchman  that 
parent  love  blooms  to  the  last. 

Valerie  felt  the  presence  of  that  love  as  a  divine  protecting 
guardianship.  She  sank  on  her  knees  and -covered  his  hand 
with  grateful  kisses. 

"  Do  not  torture  yourself,  my  child,  with  jealous  fears  of  the 
fair  Italian.  Her  lot  and  Alain  de  Rochebriant's  can  never 
unite  ;  and  whatever  you  may  think  of  their  whispered  con- 
verse, Alain's  heart  at  this  moment  is  too  filled  with  anxious 
troubles  to  leave  one  spot  in  it  accessible  even  to  a  frivolous  gal- 
lantry. It  is  for  us  to  remove  these  troubles  ;  and  then,  when 
he  turns  his  eyes  towards  you,  it  will  be  with  the  gaze  of  one 
vho  beholds  his  happiness.  You  do  not  weep  now,  Valerie," 


THE    PARISIANS.  3*0 

BOOK  IX. 

CHAPTER  I. 

ON  waking  some  morning,  have  you  ever  felt,  reader,  as  if  a 
change  for  the  brighter  in  the  world,  without  and  within  you, 
had  suddenly  come  to  pass  ;  some  new  glory  has  been  given 
to  the  sunshine,  some  fresh  balm  to  the  air;  you  feel  younger, 
and  happier,  and  lighter,  in  the  very  beat  of  your  heart  ;  you 
almost  fancy  you  hear  the  chime  of  some  spiritual  music  far 
off,  as  if  in  the  deeps  of  heaven  ?  You  are  not  at  first  con- 
scious how,  or  wherefore,  this  change  has  been  brought  about. 
Is  it  the  effect  of  a  dream  in  the  gone  sleep,  that  has  made 
this  morning  so  different  from  mornings  that  have  dawned  be- 
fore ?  And  while  vaguely  asking  yourself  that  question,  you 
become  aware  tftat  the  cause  is  no  mere  illusion,  that  it  has  its 
substance  in  words  spoken  by  living  lips,  in  things  that  belong 
to  the  work-day  world. 

It  was  thus  that  Isaura  woke  the  morning  after  the  conver- 
sation with  Alain  de  Rochebriant,  and  as  certain  words,  then 
spoken,  echoed  back  on  her  ear,  she  knew  why  she  was  so 
happy,  why  the  world  was  so  changed. 

In  those  words  she  heard  the  voice  of  Graham  Vane — no ! 
she  had  not  deceived  herself — she  was  loved  !  she  was  loved  ! 
What  mattered  that  long,  cold  interval  of  absence  ?  She  had 
not  forgotten,  she  could  not  believe  that  absence  had  brought 
forgetfulness.  There  are  moments  when  we  insist  on  judg- 
ing another's  heart  by  our  own.  All  would  be  explained  some 
day — all  would  come  right. 

How  lovely  was  the  face  that  reflected  itself  in  the  glass  as 
she  stood  before  it  smoothing  back  her  long  hair,  murmuring 
sweet  snatches  of  Italian  love-song,  and  blushing  with  sweeter 
love-thoughts  as  she  sang  !  All  that  had  passed  in  that  year 
so  critical  to  her  outer  life — the  authorship,  the  fame,  the  pub- 
.  lie  career,  the  popular  praise — vanished  from  her  mind  as  a 
vapor  that  rolls  from  the  face  of  a  lake  to  which  the  sunlight 
restores  the  smile  of  a  brightened  heaven. 

She  was  more  the  girl  now  than  she  had  ever  been  since  the 
day  on  which  she  sat  reading  Tasso  on  the  craggy  shore  of 
Sorrento. 

Singing  still  as  she  passed  from  her  chamber,  and  entering 


3>"o  THE  PARISIANS. 

the  sitting-room  which  fronted  the  east,  and  seemed  bathed  irt 
the  sunbeams  of  deepening  May,  she  took  her  bird  from  its 
cage,  and  stopped  her  song  to  cover  it  with  kisses,  which  per- 
haps yearned  for  vent  somewhere. 

Later  in  the  day  she  went  out  to  visit  Valerie.  Recalling 
the  altered  manner  of  her  young  friend,  her  sweet  nature  be- 
came troubled.  She  divined  that  Valerie  had  conceived  some 
jealous  pain  which  she  longed  to  heal  ;  she  could  not  bear  the 
thought  of  leaving  any  one  that  day  unhappy.  Ignorant  be- 
fore of  the  girl's  feelings  towards  Alain,  she  now  partly  guessed 
them — one  woman  who  loves  in  secret  is  clairvoyante  as  to 
such  secrets  in  another. 

Valerie  received  her  visitor  with  a  coldness  she  did  not  at- 
tempt to  disguise.  Not  seeming  to  notice  this,  Isaura  com- 
menced the  conversation  with  frank  mention  of  Rochebriant. 
"  I  have  to  thark  you  so  much,  dear  Valerie,  for  a  pleasure  you 
could  not  anticipate — that  of  talking  about  an  absent  friend, 
and  hearing  the  praise  he  deserved  from  one  so  capable  of 
appreciating  excellence  as  M.  de  Rochebriant' appears  to  be." 

"  You  were  talking  to  M.  de  Rochebriant  of  an  absent  friend. 
Ah  !  you  seemed  indeed  very  much  interested  in  the  con- 
versation— " 

"  Do  not  wonder  at  that,  Valerie  ;  and  do  not  grudge  me 
the  happiest  moments  I  have  known  for  months." 

"  In  talking  with  M.  de  Rochebriant !  No  doubt,  Made- 
moiselle Cicogna,  you  found  him  very  charming." 

To  her  surprise  and  indignation,  Valerie  here  felt  the  arm 
of  Isaura  tenderly  entwining  her  waist,  and  her  face  drawn  to- 
wards Isaura's  sisterly  kiss. 

"  Listen  to  me,  naughty  child — listen  and  believe.  M.  de 
Rochebriant  can  never  be  charming  to  me,  never  touch  a  chord 
m  my  heart  or  my  fancy,  except  as  friend  to  another,  or — kiss 
me  in  your  turn,  Valerie — as  suitor  to  yourself." 

Valerie  here  drew  back  her  pretty,  childlike  head,  gazed 
keenly  a  moment  into  Isaura's  eyes,  felt  convinced  by  the  lim- 
pid candor  of  their  unmistakable  honesty,  and  flinging  herself 
on  her  friend's  bosom,  kissed  her  passionately,  and  burst  into 
tears. 

The  complete  reconciliation  between  the  two  girls  was  thus 
peacefully  effected  ;  and  then  Isaura  had  to  listen,  at  no  small 
length,  to  the  confidences  poured  into  her  ears  by  Valerie,  who 
was  fortunately  too  engrossed  by  her  own  hopes  and  doubts  to 
exact  confidences  in  return.  Valerie's  was  one  of  those  im- 
pulsive, eager  natures  that  long  for  a  confidante.  Not  so  Isaura's, 


THE    PARISIANS.  367 

Only  when  Valerie  had  unburtliened  her  heart,  and  been  soothed 
and  caressed  into  happy  trust  in  the  future,  did  she  recall  Isaura's 
explanatory  words,  and  said  archly  :  "  And  your  absent  friend  ? 
Tell  me  about  him.  Is  he  as  handsome  as  Alain  ?  " 

"  Nay,"  said  Isaura,  rising  to  take  up  the  mantle  and  hat  she 
had  laid  aside  on  entering,  "  they  say  that  the  color  of  a  flower 
is  in  our  vision,  not  in  the  leaves."  Then  with  a  grave  melan- 
choly in  the  look  she  fixed  upon  Valerie,  she  added  :  "  Rather 
than  distrust  of  me  should  occasion  you  pain,  I  have  pained 
myself,  in  making  clear  to  you  the  reason  why  I  felt  interest 
in  M.  de  Rochebriant's  conversation.  In  turn,  I  ask  you  a 
favor — do  not  on  this  point  question  me  farther.  There  are 
some  things  in  our  past  which  influence  the  present,  but  to 
which  we  dare  not  assign  a  future — on  which  we  cannot  talk 
to  another.  What  soothsayer  can  tell  us  if  the  dream  of  a  yester- 
day will  be  renewed  on  the  night  of.  a  morrow  ?  All  is  said — 
we  trust  one  another,  dearest." 


CHAPTER  II. 

THAT  evening  the  Morleys  looked  in  at  Isaura's  on  their 
to  a  crowded  assembly  at  the  house  of  one  of  those  rich 
Americans  who  were  then  outvying  the  English  residents  at 
Paris  in  the  good  graces  of  Parisian  society.  I  think  the 
Americans  get  on  better  with  the  French  than  the  English  do — 
I  mean  the  higher  class  of  Americans.  They  spend  more 
money  ;  their  men  speak  French  better  ;  the  women  are  better 
dressed,  and,  as  a  general  rule,  have  read  more  largely,  and 
converse  more  frankly. 

Mrs.  Morley's  affection  for  Isaura  had  increased  during  the 
last  few  months.  As  so  notable  an  advocate  of  the  ascendancy 
of  her  sex,  she  felt  a  sor.t  of  grateful  pride  in  the  accomplish- 
ments and  growing  renown  of  so  youthful  a  member  of  the 
oppressed  sisterhood.  But,  apart  from  that  sentiment,  she  had 
conceived  a  tender,  mother-like  interest  for  the  girl  who  stood 
in  the  world  so  utterly  devoid  of  family  ties,  so  destitute  of 
that  household  guardianship  and  protection  which,  with  all 
her  assertion  of  the  strength  and  dignity  of  woman,  and  all  her 
opinions  as  to  woman's  right  of  absolute  emancipation  from  the 
conventions  fabricated  by  the  selfishness  of  man,  Mrs.  Morley 
was  too  sensible  not  to  value  for  the  individual,  though  she 
deemed  it  not  needed  for  the  mass.  Her  great  desire  was  that 
Jsaura should  marry  well,  and  soon.  American  women  usually 


368  THE   PARISIANS. 

marry  so  young  that  it  seemed  to  Mrs.  Morley  an  anomaly  in. 
social  life  that  one  so  gifted  in  mind  and  person  as  Isaura 
should  already  have  passed  the  age  in  which  the  belles  of  the 
great  Republic  are  enthroned  as  wives  and  consecrated  as 
mothers. 

We  have  seen  that  in  the  past  year  she  had  selected  from 
our  unworthy  but  necessary  sex,  Graham  Vane  as  a  suitable 
spouse  to  her  young  friend.  She  had  divined  the  state  of  his 
heart ;  she  had  more  than  suspicions  of  the  state  of  Isaura's. 
She  was  exceedingly  perplexed  and  exceedingly  chafed  at  the 
Englishman's  strange  disregard  to  his  happiness  and  her  own 
projects.  She  had  counted,  all  this  past  winter,  on  his  return 
to  Paris  ;  and  she  became  convinced  that  some  misunderstand- 
ing, possibly  some  lovers'  quarrel,  was  the  cause  of  his  pro- 
tracted absence,  and  a  cause  that,  if  ascertained,  could  be  re- 
moved. A  good  opportunity  now  presented  itself — Colonel 
Morley  was  going  to  London  the  next  day.  He  had  business 
there  which  would  detain  him  at  least  a  week.  He  would  see 
Graham  ;  and  as  she  considered  her  husband  the  shrewdest 
and  wisest  person  in  the  world — I  mean  of  the  male  sex — she 
had  no  doubt  of  his  being  able  to  turn  Graham's  mind 
thoroughly  inside  out,  and  ascertain  his  exact  feelings,  views, 
and  intentions.  If  the  Englishman,  thus  assayed,  were  found 
of  base  metal,  then,  at  least,  Mrs.  Morley  would  be  free  to  cast 
him  altogether  aside,  and  coin  for  the  uses  of  the  matrimonial 
market  some  nobler  effigy  in  purer  gold. 

"  My  dear  child,"  said  Mrs.  Morley,  in  low  voice,  nestling 
herself  close  to  Isaura,  while  the  Colonel,  duly  instructed,  drew 
off  the  Venosta,  "have  you  heard  anything  lately  of  our  pleas- 
ant friend  Mr.  Vane?" 

You  can  guess  with  what  artful  design  Mrs.  Morley  put  that 
question  point-blank,  fixing  keen  eyes  on  Isaura  while  she  put 
it.  She  saw  the  heightened  color,  the  .quivering  lip  of  the  girl 
thus  abruptly  appealed  to,  and  she  said  inly  :  "  I  was  right — 
she  loves  him  !  " 

"  I  heard  of  Mr.  Vane  last  night — accidentally." 

"  Is  he  coming  to  Paris  soon  ?  " 

"  Not  that  I  know  of.  How  charmingly  that  wreath  be- 
comes you  !  It  suits  the  earrings  so  well,  too." 

"  Frank  chose  it  ;  he  has  good  taste  for  a  man.  I  trust  him 
with  my  commissions  to  Hunt  and  Roskell's,  but  I  limit  him 
as  to  price,  he  is  so  extravagant — men  are,  when  they  make 
presents.  They  seem  to  think  we  value  things  according  to 
their  cost.  They  would  gorge  us  with  jewels,  and  let  us  starve 


fME    PARISIANS.  369 

for  want  of  a  smile.  Not  that  Frank  is  so  bad  as  the  rest  of 
them.  But  apropos  of  Mr.  Vane — Frank  will  ba  sure  to  see 
him  and  scold  him  well  for  deserting  us  all.  I  should  not  be 
surprised  if  he  brought  the  deserter  back  with  him,  for  I  sent  a 
little  note  by  Frank,  inviting  him  to  pay  us  a  visit.  We  have 
spare  rooms  in  our  apartments." 

Isaura's  heart  heaved  beneath  her  robe,  but  she  replied  in  a 
tone  of  astonishing  indifference  :  "  I  believe  this  is  the  height 
of  the  London  season,  and  Mr.  Vane  would  probably  be  too 
engaged  to  profit  even  by  an  invitation  so  tempting." 

"Nousverrons.  Ho\v  pleased  he  will  be  to  hear  of  your  tri- 
ilmphs  !  He  admired  you  so  much  before  you  were  famous  : 
what  will  be  his  admiration  now  !  Men  are  so  vain  ;  they  care 
for  us  so  much  more  when  people  praise  us.  But  till  we  have 
put  the  creatures  in  their  proper  place,  we  must  take  them  for 
what  they  are."  • 

Here  the  Venosta,  with  whom  the  poor  Colonel  had  ex- 
hausted all  the  arts  at  his  command  for  chaining  her  attention, 
could  be  no  longer  withheld  from  approaching  Mrs.  Morley, 
and  venting  her  admiration  of  that  lady's  wreath,  earrings, 
robes,  flounces.  This  dazzling  apparition  had  on  her  the  effect 
which  a  candle  has  on  a  moth  ;  she  fluttered  round  it  and 
longed  to  absorb  herself  in  its  blaze.  But  the  wreath  especially 
fascinated  her — a  wreath  which  no  prudent  lady  with  color- 
ings less  pure,  and  features  less  exquisitely  delicate  than  the 
pretty  champion  of  the  rights  of  woman,  could  have  fancied  on 
her  own  brows  without  a  shudder.  But  the  Venosta  in  such  mat- 
ters was  not  prudent.  "  It  can't  be  dear,"  she  erred  piteously, 
extending  her  arms  towards  Isaura.  "  I  must  have  one  exactly 
like.  Who  made  it  ?  Ca'ra  signora,  give  me  the  address." 

"  Ask  the  Colonel,  dear  Madame  ;  he  chose  and  bought  it," 
and  Mrs.  Morley  glanced  significantly  at  her  well-tutored  Frank. 

"  Madame,"  said  the  Colonel,  speaking  in  English,  which  he 
usually  did  with  the  Venosta,  who  valued  herself  on  knowing 
that  language,  and  was  flattered  to  be  addressed  in  it,  while  he 
amused  himself  by  introducing  into  its  forms  the  dainty  Amer- 
icanisms with  which  he  puzzled  the  Britisher — he  might  well 
puzzle  the  Florentine.  "Madame,  I  am  too  anxious  for  the 
appearance  of  my  wife  to  submit  to  the  test  of  a  rival  screamer 
like  yourself  in  the  same  apparel.  With  all  the  homage  due  to 
a  sex  of  which  I  am  enthused  dreadful,  I  decline  to  designate 
the  florist  from  whom  I  purchased  Mrs.  Morley's  head-fixings." 

"  Wicked  man  !  "  cried  the  Venosta,  shaking  her  finger  at 
him  coquettishly.  "  You  are  jealous  !  Fie  !  a  man  should 


3)0  THE    PARISIANS. 

never  be  j'ealous  of  a.  woman's  rivalry  with  woman  ";  and  thert 
with  a  cynicism  that  might  have  become  a  graybeard,  she 
added,  "but  of  his  own  sex  every  man  should  be  jealous — • 
though-of  his  dearest  friend.  Isn't  it  so.  Colonello?  " 

The  Colonel  looked'puzzled,  bowed,  and  made  no  reply. 

"  That  only  shows,"  said  Mrs.  Morley,  rising,  "  what  villains 
the  Colonel  has  the  misfortune  to  call  friends  and  fellow-men." 

"  I  fear  it  is  time  to  go,"  said  Frank,  glancing  at  the  clock. 

In  theory  the  most  rebellious,  in  practice  the  most  obedient, 
of  wives,  Mrs.  Morley  here  kissed  Isaura,  resettled  her  crino- 
line, and  shaking  hands  with  the  Venosta,  retreated  to  the  door. 

"  I  shall  have  the  wreath  yet,"  cried  the  Venosta  impishly. 
"  La  speranza  %  femmina  "  (Hope  is  female). 

"Alas!  said  Isaura,  half  mournfully,  half  smiling;  "Alas! 
do  you  not  remember  what  the  poet  replied  when  asked  what 
disease  was  most  mortal? — 'the  hectic  fevef  caught  from  the 
chill  of  hope.' " 

CHAPTER  III. 

GRAHAM  VANE  was  musing  very  gloomily  in  his  solitary 
apartment  one  morning,  when  his  servant  announced  Colonel 
Morley. 

He  received  his  visitor  with  more  than  the  cordiality  with 
which  every  English  politician  receives  an  American  citizen. 
Graham  liked  the  Colonel  too  well  for  what  he  was  in  himself, 
to  need  any  national  title  to  his  esteem.  After  some  prelimi- 
nary questions  and  answers  as  to  the  health  of  Mrs.  Morley, 
the  length  of  the  Colonel's  stay  in  London,  what  day  he  could 
dine  with  Graham  at  Richmond  o"r  Gravesend,  the  Colonel 
took  up  the  ball.  "We  have  been  reckoning  to  see  you  at 
Paris,  sir,  for  the  last  six  months." 

"  I  am  very  much  flattered  to  hear  that  you  have  thought  of 
me  at  all  ;  but  I  am  not  aware  of  having  warranted  the  expec- 
tation you  so  kindly  express." 

"  I  guess  you  must  have  said  something  to  my  wife  which  led 
her  to  do  more  than  expect — to  reckon  on  your  return.  And, 
by  the  way,  sir,  I  am  charged  to  deliver  to  you  this  note  from 
her^  and  to  back  the  request  it  contains  that  you  will  avail 
yourself  of  the  offer.  Without  summarizing  the  points  I  do  so." 
*  Graham  glanced  over  the  note  addressed  to  him  : 
"  DEAR  MR.  VANE  : 

"  Do  you  forget  how  beautiful  the  environs  of  Paris  are  in 
May  and  June  ?  How  charming  it  was  last  year  at  the  lake 


THE    PARISIANS.  $71 

of  Knghien  ?  How  gay  were  our  little  dinners  out  of  doors 
in  the  garden  arbors,  with  the  Savarins  and  the  fair  Italian, 
and  her  incomparably  amusing  chaperon  ?  Frank  has  my 
orders  to  bring  you  back  to  renew  these  happy  days,  while 
the  birds  are  in  their  first  song,  and  the  leaves  are  in  their 
youngest  green.  I  have  prepared  your  room  chez  nous — a 
chamber  that  looks  out  on  the  Champs  Elysees,  and  a  quiet 
cabinet  de  travail  at  the  back,  in  which  you  can  read,  write,  or 
sulk  undisturbed.  Come,  and  we  will  again  visit  Enghien  and 
Montmorency.  Don't  talk  of  engagements.  If  man  proposes, 
woman  disposes.  Hesitate  not  :  obey.  Your  sincere  little 
friend,  LIZZY." 

"  My  dear  Morley,"  said  George,  with  emotion,  "  I  cannot 
find  words  to  thank  your  wife  sufficiently  for  an  invitation  so 
graciously  conveyed.  Alas  !  I  cannot  accept  it." 

"  Why  ?  "  asked  the  Colonel  dryly. 

"  I  have  too  much  to  do  in  London." 

"  Is  that  the  true  reason,  or  am  I  to  suspicion  that  there  is 
anything,  sir,  which  makes  you  dislike  a  visit  to  Paris  ?  " 

The  Americans  enjoy  the  reputation  of  being  the  frankest 
putters  of  questions  whom  liberty  of  speech  has  yet  educated 
into  la  recherche  de  la  v^rite^  and  certain  Colonel  Morley  in 
this  instance  did  not  impair  the  national  reputation. 

Graham  Vane's  brow  slightly  contractedf  and  he  bit  his  lip 
as  if  stung  by  a  sudden  pang  ;  but  after  a  moment's  pause,  he 
answered  with  a  good-humored  smile  : 

"  No  man  who  has  taste  enough  to  admire  the  most  beautiful 
city,  and  appreciate  the  charms  of  the  most  brilliant  society  in 
the  world,  can  dislike  Paris." 

"  My  dear  sir,  I  did  not  ask  if  you  disliked  Paris,  but  if 
there  were  anything  that  made  you  dislike  coming  back  to  it 
on  a  visit." 

"  What  a  notion  !  and  what  a  cross-examiner  you  would  have 
made  if  you  had  been  called  to  the  bar  !  Surely,  my  dear 
friend,  you  can  understand  that  when  a  man  has  in  one  place 
business  which  he  cannot  neglect,  he  may  decline  going  to 
another  place,  whatever  pleasure  it  would  give  him  to  do  so. 
By  the  way,  there  is  a  great  ball  at  one  of  the  Ministers'  to- 
night ;  you  should  go  there,  and  I  will  point  out  to  you  all 
those  English  notabilities  in  whom  Americans  naturally  take 

interest.  I  will  call  for  you  at  eleven  o'clock.  Lord , 

who  is  a  connection  of  mine,  would  be  charmed  to  know  you." 

Morley  hesitated  ;  but  when  Graham  said,  "  How  your  wife 


3?2  THE    PARISIANS. 

will  scold  you  if  you  lose  such  an  opportunity  of  telling  her 

whether  the  Duchess  of  M is  as  beautiful  as  report  says, 

and  whether  Gladstone  or  Disraeli  seem  to  your  phrenological 
science  to  have  the  finer  head  !  "  the  Colonel  gave  in,  and  it 
was  settled  that  Graham  should  call  for  him  at  the  Langham 
Hotel. 

That  matter  arranged,  Graham  probably  hoped  that  his 
inquisitive  visitor  would  take  leave  for  the  present,  but  the  Col- 
onel evinced  no  such  intention.  On  the  contrary,  settling  him- 
self more  at  ease  in  his  arm-chair,  he  said  :  "  If  I  remember 
aright,  you  do  not  object  to  the  odor  of  tobacco?  " 

Graham  rose  and  presented  to  his  visitor  a  cigar-box  which 
he  took  from  the  mantel-piece. 

The  Colonel  shook  his  head,  and  withdrew  from  his  breast- 
pocket a  leather  case,  from  which  he  extracted  a  gigantic  re- 
galia ;  this  he  lighted  from  a  gold  match-box  in  the  shape  of  a 
locket  attached  to  his  watch-chain,  and  took  two  or  three  pre- 
liminary puffs  with  his  head  thrown  back  and  his  eyes  medita- 
tively intent  upon  the  ceiling. 

We  know  already  that  strange  whim  of  the  Colonel's  (than 
whom,  if  he  so  pleased,  no  man  could  speak  purer  English  as 
spoken  by  the  Britisher)  to  assert  the  dignity  of  the  American 
citizen  by  copious  use  of  expressions  and  phrases  familiar  to 
the  lips  of  the  governing  class  of  the  great  Republic — deli- 
cacies of  speech  wlflch  he  would  have  carefully  shunned  in  the 
polite  circles  of  the  Fifth  Avenue  in  New  York.  Now  the 
Colonel  was  much  too  experienced  a  man  of  the  world  not  to 
be  aware  that  the  commission  with  which  his  Lizzy  had  charged 
him  was  an  exceedingly  delicate  one  ;  and  it  occurred  to  his 
mother  wit  that  the  best  way  to  acquit  himself  of  it,  so  as  to 
avoid  the  risk  of  giving  or  of  receiving  serious  affront,  would 
be  to  push  that  whim  of  his  into  more  than  wonted  exaggera- 
tion. Thus  he  could  more  decidedly  and  briefly  come  to  the 
point  ;  and  should  he,  in  doing  so,  appear  too  meddlesome, 
rather  provoke  a  laugh  than  a  frown — retiring  from  the  ground 
with  the  honors  due  to  a  humorist.  Accordingly,  in  his  deep- 
est nasal  intonation,  and  withdrawing  his  eyes  from  the  ceiling, 
he  began  : 

"You  have  not  asked,  sir,  after  the  Signorina,  or,  as  we 
popularly  call  her,  Mademoiselle  Cicogna  ?  " 

"Have  I  not?  I  hope  she  is  quite  well,  and  her  lively  com- 
panion, Signora  Venosta." 

"  They  are  not  sick,  sir  ;  or  at  least  were  not  so  last  night 
when  my  wife  and  I  had  the  pleasure  to  see  them.  Of  course 


THE    PARISIANS.  373 

you  have  read  Mademoiselle  Cicogna's  book — a  bright  per- 
formance, sir,  age  considered." 

"  Certainly,  I  have  read  the  book  ;  it  is  full  of  unquestion- 
able genius.  Is  Mademoiselle  writing  another  ?  But  of 
course  she  is." 

"I  am  not  aware  of  the  fact,  sir.  It  may  be  predicated; 
such  a  mind  cannot  remain  inactive  ;  and  I  know  from  M. 
Savarin  and  that  rising  young  man,  Gustave  Rameau,  that  the 
publishers  bid  high  for  her  brains  considerable.  Two  transla- 
tions have  already  appeared  in  our  country.  Her  fame,  sir, 
will  be  world-wide.  She  may  be  another  Georges  Sand,  or  at 
least  another  Eulalie  Grantmesnil." 

Graham's  cheek  became  as  white  as  the  paper  I  write  on. 
He  inclined  his  head  as  in  assent,  but  without  a  word.  The 
Colonel  continued  : 

"  We  ought  to  be  very  proud  of  her  acquaintance,  sir.  I 
think  you  detected  her  gifts  while  they  were  yet  unconjectured. 
My  wife  says  so.  You  must  be  gratified  to  remember  that, 
sir — clear  grit,  sir,  and  no  mistake." 

"I  certainly  more  than  once  have  said  to  Mrs.  Morley  that 
I  esteemed  Mademoiselle's  powers  so  highly  that  I  hoped  she 
would  never  become  a  stage-singer  and  actress.  But  this  M. 
Rameau  ?  You  say  he  is  a  rising  man.  It  struck  me  when  at 
Paris  that  he  was  one  of  those  charlatans,  with  a  great  deal  of 
conceit  and  very  little  information,  who  are  always  found  in 
scores  on  the  ultra-Liberal  side  of  politics  ;  possibly  I  was 
mistaken." 

"He  is  the  responsible  editor  of  Le  Sens  Commun,  in  which 
talented  periodical  Mademoiselle  Cicogna's  book  was  first 
raised." 

"  Of  course,  I  know  that  ;  a  journal  which,  so  far  as  I  have 
looked  into  its  political  or  social  articles,  certainly  written  by 
a  cleverer  and  an  older  man  than  M.  Rameau,  is  for  unsettling 
all  things  and  settling  nothing.  We  have  writers 'of  that  kind 
among  ourselves  ;  I  have  no  sympathy  with  them.  To  me  it 
seems  that  when  a  man  says,  'Off  with  your  head,'  he  ought  to 
let  us  know  what  other  head  he  would  put  on  our  shoulders, 
and  by  what  process  the  change  of  heads  shall  be  effected. 
Honestly  speaking,  if  you  and  your  charming  wife  are  intimate 
friends  and  admirers  of  Mademoiselle  Cicogna,  I  think  you 
could  not  do  her  a  greater  service  than  that  of  detaching  her 
from  all  connection  with  men  like  M.  Rameau,  and  journals 
like  Le  Sens  Commun." 

The  Colonel  here  withdrew  his  cigar  from  his  lips,  towered 


374  THE    PARISIANS. 

his  head  to  a  level  with  Graham's,  and  relaxing  into  an  arch, 
significant  smile,  said  :  "Start  to  Paris, and  dissuade  her  your- 
self. Start — go  ahead — don't  be  shy — don't  seesaw  on  the 
beam  of  speculation.  You  will  have  more  influence  with  that 
young  female  than  we  can  boast." 

Never  was  England  in  greater  danger  of  quarrel  with 
America  that  at  that  moment;  but  Graham  curbed  his  first 
wrathful  impulse,  and  replied  coldly  : 

"  It  seems  to  me,  Colonel,  that  you,  though  very  unconscious- 
ly, derogate  from  the  respect  due  to  Mademoiselle  Cicogna. 
'I  hat  the  council  of  a  married  couple  like  yourself  and  Mrs. 
Morley  should  be  freely  given  to  and  duly  heeded  by  a  girl 
deprived  of  her  natural  advisers  in  parents,  is  a  reasonably 
and  honorable  supposition  ;  but  to  imply  that  the  most  in- 
fluential adviser  of  a  young  lady  so  situated  is  a  young  single 
man,  in  no  way  related  to  her,  appears  to  me  a  dereliction  of 
that  regard  to  the  dignity  of  her  sex  which  is  the  chivalrous 
characteristic  of  your  countrymen — and  to  Mademoiselle 
Cicogna  herself,  a  surmise  which  she  would  be  justified  in  .re- 
senting as  an  impertinence." 

"  I  deny  both  allegations,"  replied  the  Colonel  serenely.  "  I 
maintain  that  a  single  man  whips  all  connubial  creation  when 
it  comes  to  gallantizing  a  single  young  woman  ;  and  that  no 
young  lady  would  be  justified  in  resenting  as  impertinence  my 
friendly  suggestion  to  the  single  man  so  deserving  of  her  con- 
sideration as  I  estimate  you  to  be,  to  solicit  the  right  to  advise 
her  for  life.  And  that's  a  caution." 

Here  the  Colonel  resumed  his  regalia,  and  again  gazed  intent 
on  the  ceiling. 

"  Advise  her  for  life  !  You  mean,  I  presume,  as  a  candidate 
for  her  hand." 

"You  don't  turkey  now.  Well,  I  guess,  you  are  not  wide  of 
the  mark  there,  sir." 

"You  do  me  infinite  honor,  but  I  do  not  presume  so  far." 

"  So,  so — not  as  yet.  Before  a  man  who  is  not  without 
gumption  runs  himself  for  Congress,  he  likes  to  calculate 
how  the  votes  will  run.  Well,  sir,  suppose  we  are  in  caucus, 
and  let  us  discuss  the  chances  of  the  election  with  closed 
doors." 

Graham  could  not  help  smiling  at  the  persistent  officiousness 
of  his  visitor,  but  his  smile  was  a  very  sad  one. 

"Pray  change  the  subject,  my  dear  Colonel  Morley,  it  is  not 
a  pleasant  one  to  me  ;  and  as  regards  Mademoiselle  Cicogna, 
gan  you  think  it  would  not  shock  her  to  suppose  that  her  name 


THE    PARISIANS.  37 j 

was  dragged  into  the  discussions  you  would  provoke,  even  with 
closed  doors? " 

"Sir,"  replied  the  Colonel  imperturbably,  "since  the  doors 
are  closed,  there  is  no  one,  unless  it  be  a  spirit-listener  under 
the  table,  who  can  wire  to  Mademoiselle  Cicogna  the  substance 
of  debate.  And,  for  my  part,  I  do  not  believe  in  spiritual 
manifestations.  Fact  is,  that  I  have  the  most  amicable  senti- 
ments towards  both  parties,  and  if  there  is  a  misunderstanding 
which  is  opposed  to  the  union  of  the  States,  I  wish  to  remove 
it  while  yet  in  time.  Now,  let  us  suppose  that  you  decline  to 
be  a  candidate  ;  there  are  plenty  of  others  who  will  run  ;  and 
as  an  elector  must  choose  one  representative  or  other,  so  a  gal 
must  choose  one  husband  or  other.  And  then  you  only  repent 
when  it  is  too  late.  It  is  a  great  thing  to  be  first  in  the  field. 
Let  us  approximate  to  the  point ;  the  chances  seem  good — will 
you  run  ?  Yes  or  no  ?  " 

"  I  repeat,  Colonel   Morley,  that  I   entertain  no  such  pre 
sumption." 

The  Colonel  here,  rising,  extended  his  hand,  which  Graham 
shook  with  constrained  cordiality,  and  then  leisurely  walked  to 
the  door  ;  there  he  paused,  as  if  struck  by  a  new  thought,  and 
said  gravely,  in  his  natural  tone  of  voice  :  "You  have  nothing 
to  say,  sir,  against  the  young  lady's  character  and  honor  ?  " 

"  I !  Heavens,  no  !  Colonel  Morley,  such  a  question  insults 
me." 

The  Colonel  resumed  his  deepest  nasal  bass  :  "  It  is  only, 
then,  because  you  don't  fancy  her  so  much  as  you  did  last 
year — fact,  you  are  soured  on  her  and  fly  off  the  handle.  Such 
things  do  happen.  The  same  thing -has  happened  to  myself, 
sir.  In  my  days  of  celibacy,  there  was  a  gal  at  Saratoga  whom 
I  gallantized,  and  whom,  while  I  was  at  Saratoga,  I  thought 
Heaven  had  made  to  be  Mrs.  MorTey.  I  was  on  the  very  point 
of  telling  her  so,  when  I  was  Suddenly  called  off  to  Philadel- 
phia ;  and  at  Philadelphia,  sir,  I  found  that  Heaven  had  made 
another  Mrs.  Morley.  I  state  this  fact,  sir,  though  I  seldom 
talk  of  my  own  affairs,  even  when  willing  to  tender  my  advice 
in  the  affairs  of  another,  in  order  to  prove  that  I  do  not  intend 
to  censure  you  if  Heaven  has  served  you  in  the  same  manner. 
Sir,  a  man  may  go  blind  for  one  gal  when  he  is  not  yet  dry 
behind  the  ears,  and  then,  when  his  eyes  are  skinned,  go  in  for 
one  better.  All  things  mortal  meet  with  a  change,  as  my 
sister's  little  boy  said  when,  at  the  age  of  eight,  he  quitted  the 
Methodys  and  turned  Shaker.  Threep  and  argue  as  we  may, 
you  and  I  are  both  mortals — more's  the  pity.  Good-morning, 


376  THE    PARISIANS. 

sir  (glancing  at  the  clock,  which  proclaimed  the  hour  of  3  P.M.), 
I  err — good-evening." 

By  the  post  that  day  the  Colonel  transmitted  a  condensed 
and  laconic  report  of  his  conversation  with  Graham  Vane.  I 
can  state  its  substance  in  yet  fewer  words.  He  wrote  word 
that  Graham  positively  declined  the  invitation  to  Paris  ;  that 
he  had  then,  agreeably  to  Lizzy's  instructions,  ventilated  the 
Englishman,  in  the  most  delicate  terms,  as  to  his  intentions 
with  regard  to  Isaura,  and  that  no  intentions  at  all  existed. 
The  sooner  all  thoughts  of  him  were  relinquished,  and  a  new 
suitor  on  the  ground,  the  better  it  would  be  for  the  young 
lady's  happiness  in  the  only  state  in  which  happiness  should  be, 
if  not  found,  at  least  sought,  whether  by  maid  or  man. 

Mrs.  Morley  was  extremely  put  out  by  this  untoward  result 
of  the  diplomacy  she  had  intrusted  to  the  Colonel  ;  and  when, 
the  next  day,  came  a  very  courteous  letter  from  Graham, 
thanking  her  gratefully  for  the  kindness  of  her  invitation,  and 
expressing  his  regret  briefly,  though  cordially,  at  his  inability 
to  profit  by  it,  without  the  most  distant  allusion  to  the  subject 
which  the  Colonel  had  brought  on  the  tapis,  or  even  requesting 
his  compliments  to  the  Signoras  Venosta  and  Cicogna,  she  was 
more  than  put  out,  more  than  resentful — she  was  deeply 
grieved.  Being,  however,  one  of  those  gallant  heroes  of  woman- 
kind who  do  not  give  in  at  the  first  defeat,  she  began  to  doubt 
whether  Frank  had  not  rather  overstrained  the  delicacy  which 
he  said  he  had  put  into  his  "  soundings."  He  ought  to  have 
been  more  explicit.  Meanwhile  she  resolved  to  call  on 
Isaura,  and,  without  mentioning  Graham's  refusal  of  her  invi- 
tation, endeavor  to  ascertain  whether  the  attachment  which  she 
felt  persuaded  the  girl  secretly  cherished  for  this  recalcitrant 
Englishman  were  something  more  than  the  first  romantic  fancy — 
whether  it  were  sufficiently  deep  to  justify  farther  effort  on 
Mrs.  Morley's  part  to  bring  it  to  a  prosperous  issue. 

She  found  Isaura  at  home  and  alone  ;  and,  to  do  her  justice, 
she  exhibited  wonderful  tact  in  the  fulfilment  of  the  task  she 
had  set  herself.  Forming  her  judgment  by  manner  and  look, 
not  words,  she  returned  home  convinced  that  she  ought  to 
seize  the  opportunity  afforded  to  her  by  Graham's  letter.  It 
was  one  to  which  she  might  very  naturally  reply,  and  in  that 
reply  she  might  convey  the  object  at  her  heart  more  felici- 
tously than  the  Colonel  had  done.  "The  cleverest  man  is," 
she  said  to  herself,  "  stupid  compared  to  an  ordinary  woman  in 
the  real  business  of  life,  which  does  not  consist  of  fighting  and 
money-making," 


THE   PARISIANS.  377 

Now  there  was  one  point  she  had  ascertained  by  words  in 
her  visit  to  Isaura — a  point  on  which  all  might  depend.  She 
had  asked  Isaura  when  and  where  she  had  seen  Graham  last  ; 
and  when  Isaura  had  given  her  that  information,  and  she 
learned  it  was  on  the  eventful  day  on  which  Isaura  gave  her 
consent  to  the  publication  of  her  MS.  if  approved  by  Savarin, 
in  the  journal  to  be  set  up  by  the  handsome-faced  young  author, 
she  leapt  to  the  conclusion  that  Graham  had  been  seized  with 
no  unnatural  jealousy,  and  was  still  under  the  illusive  glamoury 
of  that  green-eyed  fiend.  She  was  confirmed  in  this  notion, 
not  altogether  an  unsound  one,  when  asking  with  apparent 
carelessness  :  "  And  in  that  last  interview,  did  you  see  any 
change  in  Mr.  Vane's  manner,  especially  when  he  took  leave  ?" 

Isaura  turned  away  pale,  and  involuntarily  clasping  her 
hands,  as  women  do  when  they  would  suppress  pain,  replied, 
in  a  low  murmur  :  "  His  manner  was  changed." 

Accordingly,  Mrs.  Morley  sat  down  and  wrote  the  following 
letter  : 

1'  DEAR  MR.  VANE  : 

"  I  am  very  angry  indeed  with  you  for  refusing  my  invitation  ; 
I  had  so  counted  on  you,  and  I  don't  believe  a  word  of  your 
excuse.  Engagements  !  To  balls  and  dinners,  I  suppose,  as 
if  you  were  not  much  too  clever  to  care  about  these  silly  at- 
tempts to  enjoy  solitude  in  crowds.  And  as  to  what  you  men 
call  business,  you  have  no  right  to  have  any  business  at  all. 
You  are  not  in  commerce  ;  you  are  not  in  Parliament ;  you 
told  me  yourself  that  you  had  no  great  landed  estates  to  give 
you  trouble  ;  you  are  rich,  without  any  necessity  to  take  pains 
to  remain  rich,  or  to  become  richer  ;  you  have  no  business  in 
the  world  except  to  please  yourself  :  and  when  you  will  not 
come  to  Paris  to  see  one  of  your  truest  friends — which  I  cer- 
tainly am — it  simply  means,  that  no  matter  how  such  a  visit 
would  please  me,  it  does  not  please  yourself.  I  call  that 
abominably  rude  and  ungrateful. 

"But  I  am  not  writing  merely  to  scold  you.  I  have  some- 
thing else  on  my  mind,  and  it  must  come  out.  Certainly,  when 
you  were  at  Paris  last  year  you  did  admire,  above  all  other  young 
ladies,  Isaura  Cicogna.  And  I  honored  you  for  doing  so.  I 
know  no  young  lady  to  be  called  her  equal.  Well,  if  you  ad- 
mired her  then,  what  would  you  do  now  if  you  met  her  ?  Then 
she  was  but  a  girl — very  brilliant,  very  charming,  it  is  true — 
but  undeveloped,  untested.  Now  she  is  a  woman,  a  princess 
among  women,  but  retaining  all  that  is  most  lovable  in  a  girl;  aO 


378  THE    PARISIANS. 

courted,  yet  so  simple ;  so  gifted,  yet  so  innocent.  Her  head 
is  not  a  bit  turned  by  all  the  flattery  that  surrounds  her.  Come 
and  judge  for  yourself.  I  still  hold  the  door  of  the  rooms 
destined  to  you  open  for  repentance. 

"  My  dear  Mr.  Vane,  do  not  think  me  a  silly,  match-making 
little  woman,  when  I  write  to  you  thus,  a  cceur  ouvert. 

"  I  like  you  so  much  that  I  would  fain  secure  to  you  the 
rarest  prize  which  life  is  ever  likely  to  offer  to  your  ambition. 
Where  can  you  hope  to  find  another  Isaura  ?^  Among  the  state- 
liest daughters  of  your  English  dukes,  where  is  there  one  whom 
a  proud  man  would  be  more  proud  to  show  to  the  world,  saying, 
'  She  is  mine  ! '  where  one  more  distinguished — I  will  not  say 
by  mere  beauty,  there  she  might  be  eclipsed — but  by  sweetness 
and  dignity  combined  ;  in  aspect,  manner,  every  movement, 
every  smile  ? 

"  And  you,  who  are  yourself  so  clever,  so  well  read — you 
who  would  be  so  lonely  with  a  wife  who  was  not  your  compan- 
ion, with  whom  you  could  not  converse  on  equal  terms  of  intel- 
lect,— my  dear  friend,  where  could  you  find  a  companion  in 
whom  you  would  not  miss  the  poet-soul  of  Isaura  ?  Of  course 
I  should  not  dare  to  obtrude  all  these  questionings  on  your 
innermost  reflections,  if  I  had  not  some  idea,  right  or  wrong, 
that  since  the  days  when  at  Enghien  and  Montmorency,  seeing 
you  and  Isaura  side  by  side,  I  whispered  to  Frank,  '  So  should 
those  two  be  through  life,'  some  cloud  has  passed  between  your 
eyes  and  the  future  on  which  they  gazed.  Cannot  that  cloud 
be  dispelled?  Were  you  so  unjust  to  yourself  as  to  be  jealous 
of  a  rival,  perhaps  of  a  Gustave  Rameau  ?  I  write  to  you 
frankly  ;  answer  me  frankly  ;  and  if  you  answer,  '  Mrs.  Mor- 
ley,  I  don't  know  what  you  mean  ;  I  admired  Mademoiselle 
Cicogna  as  I  might  admire  any  other  pretty,  accomplished  girl, 
but  it  is  really  nothing  to  me  whether  she  marries  Gustave 
Rameau  or  any  one  else,' — why,  then,  burn  this  letter  ;  forget 
that  it  has  been  written  ;  and  may  you  never  know  the  pang 
of  remorseful  sigh,  if,  in  the  days  to  come,  you  see  her — whose 
name  in  that  case  I  should  profane  did  I  repeat  it — the  com- 
rade of  another  man's  mind,  the  half  of  another  man's  heart, 
the  pride  and  delight  of  another  man's  blissful  home." 


CHAPTER  IV. 

THERE  is  somewhere  in  Lord  Lytton's  writings — writings  so 
numerous  that  I  may  be  pardoned  if  I  cannot  remember  where — 


THE   PARISIANS.  379 

a  critical  definition  of  the  difference  between  dramatic  and 
narrative  art  of  story,  instanced  by  that  marvellous  passage  in 
the  loftiest  of  Sir  Walter  Scott's  works,  in  which  all  the  anguish 
of  Ravenswood  on  the  night  before  he  has  to  meet  Lucy's 
brother  in  mortal  combat  is  conveyed  without  the  spoken  words 
required  in  tragedy.  '  It  is  only  to  be  conjectured  by  the  tramp 
of  his  heavy  boots  to  and  fro  all  the  night  long  in  his  solitary 
chamber,  heard  below  by  the  faithful  Caleb.  The  drama 
could  not  have  allowed  that  treatment ;  the  drama  must  have 
put  into  words  as  "soliloquy,"  agonies  which  the  non-dramatic 
narrator  knows  that  no  soliloquy  can  describe.  Humbly  do  I 
imitate,  then,  the  great  master  of  narrative  in  declining  to  put 
into  words  the  conflict  between  love  and  reason  that  tortured 
the  heart  of  Graham  Vane  when  dropping  noiselessly  the  letter 
I  have  just  transcribed.  He  covered  his  face  with  his  hands 
and  remained — I  know  not  how  long — in  the  same  position, 
his  head  bowed,  not  a  sound  escaping  from  his  lips. 

He  did  not  stir  from  his  rooms  that  day ;  and  had  there  been 
a  Caleb's  faithful  ear  to  listen,  his  tread,  too,  might  have  been 
heard  all  that  sleepless  night  passing  to  and  fro,  but  pausing 
oft,  along  his  solitary  floors. 

Possibly  love  would  have  borne  down  all  opposing  reason- 
ings, doubts,  and  prejudices,  but  for  incidents  that  occurred 
the  following  evening.  On  that  evening  Graham  dined  en 
famille  with  his  cousins  the  Altons.  After  dinner,  the  Duke 
produced  the  design  for  a  cenotaph  inscribed  to  the  memory 
of  his  aunt,  Lady  Janet  King,  which  he  proposed  to  place  in 
the  family  chapel  at  Alton. 

"I  know,"  said  the  Duke  kindly,  "you  would  wish  the  old 
house  from  which  she  sprang  to  preserve  some  such  record  of 
her  who  loved  you  as  her  son  ;  and  even  putting  you  out  of 
the  question,  it  gratifies  me  to  attest  the  claim  of  our  family  to 
a  daughter  who  continues  to  be  famous  for  her  goodness,  and 
made  the  goodness  so  lovable  that  envy  forgave  it  for  being 
famous.  Itwasa  pang  to  me  when  poor  Richard  Kingdecided 
on  placing  her  tomb  among  strangers  ;  but  in  conceding  his 
rights  as  to  her  resting-place,  I  retain  mine  to  her  name. 
'  Nostris  liber  is  virtutis  exemplar.1  ' 

Graham  wrung  his  cousin's  hand  ;  he  could  not  speak, 
choked  by  suppressed  tears. 

The  Duchess,  who  loved  and  honored  Lady  Janet  almost 
as  much  as  did  her  husband,  fairly  sobbed  aloud.  She  had, 
indeed,  reason  for  grateful  memories  of  the  deceased  :  there 
had  been  some  obstacles  to  her  marriage  with  the  man  who 


380  THE    PARISIANS. 

had  won  her  heart,  arising  from  political  differences  and  family 
feuds  between  their  parents,  which  the  gentle  mediation  of 
Lady  Janet  had  smoothed  away.  And  never  did  union  found- 
ed on  mutual  and  ardent  love  more  belie  the  assertions  of  the 
great  Bichat  (esteemed  by  Dr.  Buckle  the  finest  intellect  which 
practical  philosophy  has  exhibited  since  Aristotle),  that  "  Love 
is  a  sort  of  fever  which  does  not  last  beyond  two  years,"  than 
that  between  these  eccentric -specimens  of  a  class  denounced 
as  frivolous  and  heartless  by  philosophers,  English  and  French, 
who  have  certainly  never  heard  of  Bichat. 

When  the  emotion  the  Duke  had  exhibited  was  calmed  down, 
his  wife  pushed  towards  Graham  a  sheet  of  paper,  inscribed 
with  the  epitaph  composed  by  his  hand.  "  Is  it  not  beauti- 
ful," she  said  fafteringly  ;  "  not  a  word  too  much  nor  too 
little!" 

Graham  read  the  inscription  slowly,  and  with  very  dim  eyes. 
It  deserved  the  praise  bestowed  on  it ;  for  the  Duke,  though  a 
shy  and  awkward  speaker,  was  an  incisive  and  graceful  writer. 

Yet,  in  his  innermost  self,  Graham  shivered  when  he  read 
that  epitaph,  it  expressed  so  emphatically  the  reverential 
nature  of  the  love  which  Lady  Janet  had  inspired,  the  genial 
influences  which  the  holiness  of  a  character  so  active  in  doing 
good  had  diffused  around  it.  It  brought  vividly  before 
Graham  that  image  of  perfect,  spotless  womanhood.  And  a 
voice  within  him  asked  :  "  Would  that  cenotaph  be  placed 
amid  the  monuments  of  an  illustrious  lineage  if  the  secret 
known  to  thee  could  transpire  ?  What  though  the  lost  one 
were  really  as  unsullied  by  sin  as  the  world  deems,  would  the 
name  now  treasured  as  an  heirloom  not  be  a  memory  of  gall 
and  a  sound  of  shame  ?" 

He  remained  so  silent  after  putting  down  the  inscription, 
that  the  Duke  said  modestly :  "  My  dear  Graham,  I  see  that 
you  do  not  like  what  I  have  written.  Your  pen  is  much  more 
practised  than  mine.  If  I  did  not  ask  you  to  compose  the 
epitaph,  it  was  because  I  thought  it  would  please  you  more  in 
coming,  as,  a  spontaneous  tribute  due  to  her,  from  the  repre- 
sentative of  her  family.  But  will  you  correct  my  sketch,  or 
give  me  another  according  to  your  own  ideas  ?  " 

"  I  see  not  a  word  to  alter,"  said  Graham  ;  T<  forgive  me  if 
my  silence  wronged  my  emotion  ;  the  truest  eloquence  is  that 
which  holds  us  too  mute  for  applause." 

"  I  knew  you  would  like  it ;  Leopold  is  always  so  disposed  to 
underrate  himself,"  said  the  Duchess,  whose  hand  was  resting 
fondly  on  her  husband's  shoulder.  "  Epitaphs  are  so  difficult 


THE    PARISIANS.  381 

to  write,  especially  epitaphs  on  women  of  whom  in  life  the 
least  said  the  better.  Janet  was  the  only  woman  I  ever  knew 
whom  one  could  praise  in  safety." 

"  Well  expressed,"  said  the  Duke,  smiling  ;  "  and  I  wish  you 
would  make  that  safety  clear  to  some  lady  friends  of  yours,  to 
whom  it  might  serve  as  a  lesson.  Proof  against  every  breath 
of  scandal  herself,  Janet  King  never  uttered  and  never  en- 
couraged one  ill-natured  word  against  another.  But  I  am 
afraid,  my  dear  fellow,  that  I  must  leave  you  to  a  tete-h-tete 
with  Eleanor.  You  know  that  I  must  be  at  the  House  this 
evening — I  only  paired  till  half-past  nine." 

"  I  will  walk  down  to  the  House  with  you,  if  you  are  going 
on  foot." 

"  No,"  said  the  Duchess  ;  "  you  must  resign  yourself  to  me 
for  at  least  half  an  hour.  I  was  looking  over  your  aunt's  let- 
ters to-day,  and  I  found  one  which  I  wish  to  show  you  ;  it  is  all 
about  yourself,  and  written  within  the  last  few  months  of  her 
life."  Here  she  put  her  arm  into  Graham's,  and  led  him  into 
her  own  private  drawing-room,  which,  though  others  might  call 
it  a  boudoir,  she  dignified  by  the  name  of  her  study.  The 
Duke  remained  for  some  minutes  thoughtfully  leaning  his  arm 
on  the  mantel-piece.  It  was  no  unimportant  debate  in  the 
Lords  that  night,  and  on  a  subject  in  which  he  took  great  in- 
terest, and  the  details  of  which  he  had  thoroughly  mastered. 
He  had  been  requested  to  speak,  if  only  a  few  words,  for  his 
high  character  and  his  reputation  for  good  sense  gave  weight 
to  the  mere  utterance  of  his  opinion.  But  though  no  one  had 
more  moral  courage  in  action,  the  Duke  had  a  terror  at  the 
very  thought  of  addressing  an  audience  which  made  him  de- 
spise himself. 

"  Ah  !  "  he  muttered,  "  if  Graham  Vane  were  but  in  Parlia- 
ment, I  could  trust  him  to  say  exactly  what  I  would  rather  be 
swallowed  up  by  an  earthquake  than  stand  up'and  say  for  my- 
self. But  now  he  has  got  money  he  seems  to  think  of  nothing 
but  saving  it." 

CHAPTER  V. 

THE  letter  from  Lady  Janet,  which  the  Duchess  took  from 
the  desk  and  placed  in  Graham's  hand,  was  in  strange  coinci- 
dence with  the  subject  that  for  the  last  twenty-four  hours  had 
absorbed  his  thoughts  and  tortured  his  heart.  Speaking  of 
him  in  terms  of  affectionate  eulogy,  the  writer  proceeded  to 
confide  her  earnest  wish  that  he  should  not  longer  delay  that 


382  THE    PARISIANS. 

change  in  life,  which,  concentrating  so  much  that  is  vague  in 
the  desires  and  aspirations  of  man,  leaves  his  heart  and  his 
mind,  made  serene  by  the  contentment  of  home,  free  for  the 
steadfast  consolidation  of  their  warmth  and  their  light  upon 
the  ennobling  duties  that  unite  the  individual  to  his  race. 

"  There  is  no  one,"  wrote  Lady  Janet,  "  whose  character  and 
career  a  felicitous  choice  in  marriage  can  have  greater  influence 
over  than  this  dear  adopted  son  of  mine.  I  do  not  fear  that 
in  any  case  he  will  be  liable  to  the  errors  of  his  brilliant  father. 
His  early  reverse  of  fortune  here  seems  to  me  one  of  those 
blessings  which  Heaven  conceals  in  the  form  of  affliction. 
P'or  in  youth,  the  genial  freshness  of  his  gay  animal  spirits,  a 
native  generosity  mingled  with  desire  of  display  and  thirst 
for  applause,  made  me  somewhat  alarmed  for  his  future.  But, 
though  he  still  retains  these  attributes  of  character,  they  are  no 
longer  predominant,  they  are  modified  and  chastened.  He  has 
learned  prudence.  But  what  I  now  fear  most  for  him  is  that 
which  he  does  not  show  in  the  world,  which  neither  Leopold 
nor  you  seem  to  detect, — it  is  an  exceeding  sensitiveness  of 
priue.  I  know  not  how  else  to  describe  it.  It  is  so  interwoven 
with  the  highest  qualities,  that  I  sometimes  dread  injury  to 
them  could  it  be  torn  away  from  the  faultier  ones  which  it 
supports. 

"  It  is  interwoven  with  that  lofty  independence  of  spirit 
which  has  made  him  refuse  openings  the  most  alluring  to  his 
ambition  ;  it  communicates  a  touching  grandeur  to  his  self- 
denying  thrift  ;  it  makes  him  so  tenacious  of  his  word  once 
given,  so  cautious  before  he  gives  it.  Public  life  to  him  is  es- 
sential ;  without  it  he  would  be  incomplete ;  and  yet  I  sigh  to 
think  that  whatever  success  he  may  achieve  in  it  will  be  at- 
tended with  proportionate  pain.  Calumny  goes  side  by  side 
with  fame,  and  courting  fame  as  a  man,  he  is  as  thin-skinned 
to  calumny  as  a  woman. 

"  The  wife  for  Graham  should  have  qualities  not  taken  indi- 
vidually, uncommon  in  English  wives,  but  in  combination 
somewhat  rare. 

"  She  must  have  mind  enough  to  appreciate  his,  not  to  clash 
with  it.  She  must  be  fitted  with  sympathies  to  be  his  dearest 
companion,  his  confidante  in  the  hopes  and  fears  which  the 
slightest  want  of  sympathy  would  make  him  keep  ever  after- 
wards pent  within  his  breast.  In  herself  worthy  of  distinction, 
she  must  merge  all  distinction  in  his.  You  have  met  in  the 
world  men  who,  marrying  professed  beauties,  or  professed  lite- 
erary  geniuses,  are  spoken  of  as  the  husband  of  the  beautiful 


THE    PARISIANS.  383 

Mrs.  A ,  or  the  clever  Mrs.  B :  can  you  fancy  Gra- 
ham Vane  in  the  reflected  light  of  one  of  those  husbands  ?  I 
trembled  last  year  when  I  thought  he  was  attracted  by  a  face 
which  the  artists  raved  about,  and  again  by  a  tongue  which 
dropped  bans  mots  that  went  the  round  of  the  clubs.  I  was 
relieved  when,  sounding  him,  he  said  laughingly, 'No,  dear 
aunt,  I  should  be  one  sore  from  head  to  foot  if  I  married  a  wife 
that  was  talked  about  for  anything  but  goodness.' 

"  No  ;  Graham  Vane  will  have  pains  sharp  enough  if  he  live 
to  be  talked  about  himself.  But  that  tenderest  half  of  himself, 
the  bearer  of  the  name  he  would  make,  and  for  the  dignity  of 
which  he  alone  would  be  responsible, — if  that  were  the  town 
talk,  he  would  curse  the  hour  he  gave  any  one  the  right  to  take 
on  herself  his  man's  burden  of  calumny  and  fame.  I  know 
not  which  I  should  pity  the  most,  Graham  Vane  or  his  wife. 

"  Do  you  understand  me,  dearest  Eleanor  ?  No  doubt 
you  do  so  far,  that  you  comprehend  that  the  women  whom 
men  most  admire  are  not  the  women  we,  as  women  our- 
selves, would  wish  our  sons  or  brothers  to  marry.  But  per- 
haps you  do  not  comprehend  my  cause  of  fear,  which  is 
this — for  in  such  matters  men  do  not  see  as  we  women 
do — Graham  abhors,  in  the  girls  of  our  time,  frivolity  and  in- 
sipidity. Very  rightly,  you  will  say.  True,  but  then  he  is  too- 
likely  to  be  allured  by  contrasts.  I  have  seen  him  attracted  by 
the  very  girls  we  recoil  from  more  than  we  do  from  those  we 
allow  to  be  frivolous  and  insipid.  I  accused  him  of  admira- 
tion for  a  certain  young  lady  whom  you  call  'odious,'  and 
whom  the  slang  that  has  come  into  vogue  calls  '  fast';  and  I 
was  not  satisfied  with  his  answer :  '  Certainly  I  admired  her  ; 
she  is  not  a  doll — she  has  ideas.'  I  would  rather  of  the  two 
see  Graham  married  to  what  men  call  a  doll,  than  to  a  girl 
with  ideas  which  are  distasteful  to  women." 

Lady  Janet  then  went  on  to  question  the  Duchess  about  a  Miss 
Asterisk,  with  whom  this  tale  will  have  nothing  to  do,  but  who, 
from  the  little  which  Lady  Janet  had  seen  of  her,  might  pos- 
sess all  the  requisites  that  fastidious  correspondent  would  exact 
for  the  wife  of  her  adopted  son. 

This  Miss  Asterisk  had  been  introduced  into  the  London 
world  by  the'  Duchess.  The  Duchess  had  replied  to  Lady 
Janet,  that  if  earth  could  be  ransacked,  a  more  suitable 
wife  for  Graham  Vane  than  Miss  Asterisk  could  not  be  found  ; 
she  was  well  born  ;  an  heiress  ;  the  estates  she  inherited  were 

in  the  county  of (viz.,  the  county  in  which  the  ancestors  of 

D'Altons  and  Vanes  had  for  centuries  established  their  where- 


384  THE    PARISIANS. 

about).  Miss  Asterisk  was  pretty  enough  to  please  any  man's 
eye,  but  not  with  the  beauty  of  which  artists  rave ;  well 
informed  enough  to  be  companion  to  a  well-informed  man,  but 
certainly  not  witty  enough  to  supply  bons  mots  to  the  clubs. 
Miss  Asterisk  was  one  of  those  women  of  whom  a  husband 
might  be  proud,  yet  with  whom  a  husband  would  feel  safe 
from  being  talked  about. 

And  in  submitting  the  letter  we  have  read  to  Graham's  eye, 
the  Duchess  had  the  cause  of  Miss  Asterisk  pointedly  in  view. 
Miss  Asterisk  had  confided  to  her  friend,  that,  of  all  men  she 
had  seen,  Mr.  Graham  Vane  was  the  one  she  would  feel  the 
least  inclined  to  refuse. 

So  when  Graham  Vane  returned  the  letter  to  the  Duchess, 
simply  saying  :  "  How  well  my  dear  aunt  divined  what  is 
weakest  in  me  !  "  the  Duchess  replied  quickly  :  "  Miss  Asterisk 
dines  here  to-morrow  ;  pray  come  ;  you  would  like  her  if  you 
knew  more  of  her." 

"  To-morrow  I  am  engaged — an  American  friend  of  mine 
dines  with  me  ;  but  'tis  no  matter,  for  I  shall  never  feel  more 
for  Miss  Asterisk  than  I  feel  for  Mont  Blanc." 


CHAPTER  VI. 

ON  leaving  his  cousin's  house  Graham  walked  on,  he  scarce 
knew  or  cared  whither,  the  image  of  the  beloved  dead  so  forci- 
bly recalled  the  solemnity  of  the  mission  with  which  he  had 
been  entrusted,  and  which  hitherto  he  had  failed  to  fulfil. 
What  if  the  only  mode  by  which  he  could,  without  causing 
questions  and  suspicions  that  might  result  in  dragging  to  day 
the  terrible  nature  of  the  trust  he  held,  enrich  the  daughter  of 
Richard  King,  repair  all  wrong  hitherto  done  to  her,  and  guard 
the  sanctity  of  Lady  Janet's  home,  should  be  in  that  union  which 
Richard  King  had  commended  to  him  while  his  heart  was  yet 
free  ? 

In  such  a  case,  would  not  gratitude  to  the  dead,  duty  to  the 
living,  make  that  union  imperative  at  whatever  sacrifice  of 
happiness  to  himself  ?  The  two  years  to  which  Richard  King 
had  limited  the  suspense  of  research  were  not  yet  expired. 
Then,  too,  that  letter  of  Lady  Janet's — so  tenderly  anxious  for 
his  future,  so  clear-sighted  as  to  the  elements  of  his  own 
character  in  its  strength  or  its  infirmities — combined  with 
graver  causes  to  withhold  his  heart  from  its  yearning  impulse, 
and — no,  not  steel  it  against  Isaura,  but  forbid  it  to  realize,  in. 


THE    PARISIANS.  385 

the  fair  creature  and  creator  of  romance,  his  ideal  of  the  woman 
to  whom  an  earnest,  sagacious,  aspiring  man  commits  all  the 
destinies  involved  in  the  serene  dignity  of  his  hearth.  He 
could  not  but  own  that  this  gifted  author,  this  eager  seeker 
after  fame,  this  brilliant  and  bold  competitor  with  men  on  their 
own  stormy  battleground,  was  the  very  person  from  whom  Lady 
Janet  would  have  warned  away  his  choice.  She  (Isaura)  merge 
her  own  distinctions  in  a  husband's  !  She  leave  exclusively  to 
him  the  burden  of  fame  and  calumny  !  She  shun  "  to  be  talked 
about  "  !  she  who  could  feel  her  life  to  be  a  success  or  a  failure, 
according  to  the  extent  and  the  loudness  of  the  talk  which  it 
courted  ! 

While  these  thoughts  racked  his  mind,  a  kindly  hand  was 
laid  on  his  arm,  and  a  cheery  voice  accosted  him.  "Well  met, 
my  dear  Vane  !  I  see  we  are  bound  to  the  same  place  ;  there 
will  be  a  good  gathering  to-night." 

"  What  do  you  mean,  Bevil  ?  I  am  going  nowhere  except  to 
my  own  quiet  rooms." 

"Pooh!  come  in  here  at  least  for  a  few  minutes," — and 
Bevil  drew  him  up  to  the  doorstep  of  a  house  close  by,  where, 
on  certain  evenings,  a  well-known  club  drew  together  men  who 
seldom  met  so  familiarly  elsewhere — men  of  all  callings  ;  a  club 
especially  favored  by  wits,  authors,  and  the  flaneurs  of  polite 
society. 

Graham  shook  his  head,  about  to  refuse,  when  Bevil  added, 
"  I  have  just  come  from  Paris,  and  can  give  you  the  last  news, 
literary,  political,  and  social.  By  the  way,  I  saw  Savarin  the 
other  night  at  the  Cicogna's — he  introduced  me  there."  Gra- 
ham winced  ;  he  was  spelled  by  the  music  of  a  name,  and  fol- 
lowed his  acquaintance  into  the  crowded  room,  and  after  re- 
turning many  greetings  and  nods,  withdrew  into  a  remote  cor- 
ner, "and  motioned  Bevil  to  a  seat  beside  him. 

"So  you  met  Savarin  ?     Where  did  you  say?" 

"  At  the  house  of  the  new  lady  author — I  hate  the  word 
authoress — Mademoiselle  Cicogna  !  Of  course  you  have  read 
her  book  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Full  of  fine  things,  is  it  not  ?  Though  somewhat  high-flown 
and  sentimental ;  however,  nothing  succeeds  like  success.  No 
book  has  been  more  talked  about  at  Paris  ;  the  only  thing  more 
talked  about  is  the  lady-author  herself." 

"  Indeed,  and  how  ?  " 

"  She  doesn't  look  twenty,  a  mere  girl — of  that  kind  of 
beauty  which  so  arrests  the  eye  that  you  pass  by  other  faces  to 


•jg6  THE    PARISIANS. 

gaze  on  it,  and  the  dullest  stranger  would  ask,  '  Who  and  what 
is  she'?  A  girl,  I  say,  like  that — who  lives  as  independently 
as  if  she  were  a  middle-aged  widow,  receives  every  week  (she 
has  her  Thursdays),  with  no  other  chaperon  than  an  old  ci- 
devant  Italian  singing  woman,  dressed  like  a  guy — must  set 
Parisian  tongues  into  play,  even  if  she  had  not  written  the 
crack  book  of  the  season." 

"  Mademoiselle  Cicogna  receives  on  Thursdays — no  harm  in 
that ;  and  if  she  have  no  other  chaperon  than  the  Italian  lady 
you  mention,  it  is  because  Mademoiselle  Cicogna  is  an  orphan, 
and  having  a  fortune,  such  as  it  is,  of  her  own,  I  do  not  see  why 
she  should  not  live  as  independently  as  many  an  unmarried 
woman  in  London  placed  under  similar  circumstances.  I  sup- 
pose she  receives  chiefly  persons  in  the  literary  or  artistic 
world,  and  if  they  are  all  as  respectable  as  the  Savarins,  I 
do  not  think  ill-nature  itself  could  find  fault  with  her  social 
circle." 

"  Ah  !  you  know  the  Cicogna,  I  presume.  I  am  sure  I  did 
not  wish  to  say  anything  that  could  offend  her  best  friends, 
only  I  do  think  it  is  a  pity  she  is  not  married,  poor  girl !  " 

"Mademoiselle  Cicogna,  accomplished,  beautiful,  of  good 
birth  (the  Cicognas  rank  among  the  oldest  of  Lombard  families), 
is  not  likely  to  want  offers." 

"Offers  of  marriage, — h'm — well;  I  daresay,  from  authors  and 
artists.  You  know  Paris  better  even  than  I  do,  but  I  don't 
suppose  authors  and  artists  there  make  the  most  desirable  hus- 
bands ;  and  I  scarcely  know  a  marriage  in  France  between 
a  man-author  and  a  lady-author  which  does  not  end  in  the 
deadliest  of  all  animosities — that  of  wounded  amour  propre. 
Perhaps  the  man  admires  his  own  genius  too  much  to  do  proper 
homage  to  his  wife's." 

"  But  the  choice  of  Mademoiselle  Cicogna  need  not  be  re- 
stricted to  the  pale  of  authorship  ;  doubtless  she  has  many  ad- 
mirers beyond  that  quarrelsome  borderland." 

"  Certainly — countless  adorers.  Enguerrand  de  Vandemar — 
you  know  that  diamond  of  dandies  ?" 

"Perfectly.     Is  he  an  admirer?  " 

"  Cela  va  sans  dire — he  told  me  that  though  she  was  not  the 
handsomest  woman  in  Paris,  all  other  women  looked  less  hand- 
some since  he  had  seen  her.  But,  of  course,  French  lady- 
killers  like  Enguerrand,  when  it  comes  to  marriage,  leave  it  to 
their  parents  to  choose  their  wives  and  arrange  the  terms  of 
the  contract.  Talking  of  lady-killers,  I  beheld  amid  the  throng 
*it  Mademoiselle  Cicogna's  the  ci-devant  Lovelace  whom  I 


THE    PARISIANS.  387 

remember  some  twenty-three  years  ago  as  the  darling  of  wives 
and  the  terror  of  husbands — Victor  de  Mauleon." 

"  Victor  de  Mauleon  at  Mademoiselle  Cicogna's  !  What  !  is 
that  man  restored  to  society  ?  " 

"Ah!  you  are  thinking  of  the  ugly  old  story  about  the 
jewels — oh  yes,  he  has  got  over  that  ;  all  his  grand  relations, 
the  Vandemars,  Beauvilliers,  Rochebriant,  and  others,  took  him 
by  the  hand  when  he  reappeared  at  Paris  last  year  ;  and  though 
1  believe  he  is  still  avoided  by  many,  he  is  courted  by  still 
more — and  avoided,  I  fancy,  rather  from  political  than  social 
causes.  The  Imperialist  set,  of  course,  execrate  and  proscribe 
him.  You  know  he  is  the  writer  of  those  biting  articles  signed 
'Pierre  Firmin'  in  the  Se/is  Commun  ;  and  I  am  told  he  is  the 
proprietor  of  that  very  clever  journal,  which  has  become  a 
.power." 

"  So,  so — that  is  the  journal  in  which  Mademoiselle  Cicogna's 
roman  first  appeared.  So,  so — Victor  de  Mauleon  one  of  her 
associates,  her  counsellor  and  friend — ah  !  " 

"  No,  I  didn't  say  that ;  on  the  contrary,  he  was  presented 
to  her  for  the  first  time  the  evening  I  was  at  the  house.  I  saw 
that  young,  silk-haired  coxcomb,  Gustave  Rameau,  introduce 
him  to  her.  You  don't  perhaps  know  Rameau,  editor  of  the 
Sens  Commun — writes  poems  and  criticisms.  They  say  he  is  a 
Red  Republican,  but  De  Mauleon  keeps  truculent  French  poli- 
tics subdued  if  not  suppressed  in  his  cynical  journal.  Some- 
body told  me  that  the  Cicogna  is  very  much  in  love  with. 
Rameau  ;  certainly  he  has  a  handsome  face  of  his  own,  and 
that  is  the  reason  why  she  was  so  rude  to  the  Russian  Prince 
X ." 

"  How  rude  ?     Did  the  Prince  propose  to  her  ?" 

"  Propose  !  you  forget — he  is  married.  Don't  you  know  the 
Princess  ?  Still  there  are  other  kinds  of  proposals  than  those 
of  marriage  which  a  rich  Russian  Prince  may  venture  to  make 
to  a  pretty  novelist  brought  up  for  the  stage." 

"  Bevil  !  "  cried  Graham,  grasping  the  man's  arm  fiercely, 
"how  dare  you  ?" 

"  My  dear  boy,"  said  Bevil,  very  much  astonished,  "I  really 
did  not  know  that  your  interest  in  the  young  lady  was  so  great. 
If  I  have  wounded  you  in  relating  a  mere  on  dit  picked  up  at 
the  Jockey  Club,  I  beg  you  a  thousand  pardons.  I  dare  say 
there  was  not  a  word  of  truth  in  it." 

"  Not  a  word  of  truth,  you  may  be  sure,  if  the  on  dit  was 
injurious  to  Mademoiselle  Cicogna.  It  is  true,  I  have  a  strong 
interest  in  her;  any  man — any  gentleman — would  have  such 


388  THE    PARISIANS. 

interest  in  a  girl  so  brilliant  and  seemingly  so  friendless.  It 
shames  one  of  human  nature  to  think  that  the  reward  which 
the  world  makes  to  those  who  elevate  its  platitudes,  brighten 
its  dulness,  delight  its  leisure,  is — Slander!  1  have  had  the 
honorto  make  the  acquaintance  of  this  lady  before  she  became 
a  'celebrity,'  and  I  have  never  met  in  my  paths  through  life  a 
purer  heart  or  a  nobler  nature.  What  is  the  wretched  on  dit 
you  condescend  to  circulate  ?  Permit  me  to  add  : 

'  He  who  repeats  a  slander  shares  the  crime.'  " 

"  Upon  my  honor,  my  dear  Vane,"  said  Bevil  seriously  (he 
did  not  want  for  spirit),  "I  hardly  know  you  this  evening.  It 
is  not  because  duelling  is  out  of  fashion  that  a  man  should 
allow  himself  to  speak  in  a  tone  that  gives  offence  to  another 
\vhointendednone  ;  and  if  duelling  is  out  of  fashion  in  England, 
it  is  still  possible  in  France.  Entre  nous,  I  would  rather  cross 
the  Channel  with  you  than  submit  to  language  that  conveys 
unmerited  insult." 

Graham's  cheek,  before  ashen  pale,  flushed  into  dark  red. 
"  I  understand  you,"  he  said  quietly,  "  and  will  be  at  Boulogne 
to-morrow." 

"Graham  Vane,"  replied  Bevil,  with  much  dignity,  "  you  and 
I  have  known  each  other  a  great  many  years,  and  neither  of 
us  has  cause  to  question  the  courage  of  the  other ;  but  I  am 
much  older  than  yourself — permit  me  to  take  the  melancholy 
advantage  of  seniority.  A  duel  between  us  in  consequence  of 
careless  words  said  about  a  lady  in  no  way  connected  with 
either,  would  be  a  cruel  injury  to  her  ;  a  duel  on  grounds  so 
slight  would  little  injure  me — a  man  about  town,  who  would 
not  sit  an  hour  in  the  House  of  Commons  if  you  paid  him  a 
thousand  pounds  a  minute.  But  you,  Graham  Vane — you 
whose  destiny  it  is  to  canvass  electors  and  make  laws — would 
it  not  be  an  injury  to  you  to  be  questioned  at  the  hustings  why 
you  broke  the  law,  and  why  you  sought  another  man's  life  ? 
Come,  come  !  Shake  hands  and  consider  all  that  seconds,  if 
we  chose  them,  would  exact,  is  said,  every  affront  on  either 
side  retracted,  every  apology  on  either  side  made." 

"Bevil,  you  disarm  and  conquer  me.  I  spoke  like  a  hot- 
headed fool ;  forget  it — forgive.  But — but — I  can  listen  calmly 
now — what  is  that  on  dit?" 

"  One  that  thoroughly  bears  out  your  own  very  manly  up- 
holding of  the  poor  young  orphan,  whose  name  I  shall  never 
again  mention  without  such  respect  as  would  satisfy  her  most 
sensitive  champion.  It  was  said  that  the  Prince  X boasted 


THE    PARISIANS.  389 

that  before  a  we-ek  was  out  Mademoiselle  Ctcogna  should  ap- 
pear in  his  carriage  at  the  Bois  de  Boulogne,  and  wear  at  the 
opera  diamonds  he  had  sent  to  her  ;  that  this  boast  was  enforced 
by  a  wager,  and  the  terms  of  the  wager  compelled  the  Prince 
to  confess  the  means  he  had  taken  to  succeed,  and  produce 
the  evidence  that  he  had  lost  or  won.  According  to  this  on  dit, 
the  Prince  had  written  to  Mademoiselle  Cicogna,  and  the  letter 
had  been  accompanied  by  aparure  that  cost  him  half  a  million 
of  francs  ;  that  the  diamonds  had  been  sent  back,  with  a  few 
words  of  such  scorn  as  a  queen  might  address  to  an  upstart 
lackey.  Bat,  my  dear  Vane,  it  is  a  mournful  position  for  a 
girl  to  receive  such  offers  ;  and  you  must  agree  with  me 
in  wishing  she  were  safely  married,  even  to  Monsieur  Rameau, 
coxcomb  though  he  be.  Let  us  hope  that  they  will  be  an  ex- 
ception to  French  authors,  male  and  female  in  general,  and 
live  like  turtle-doves." 

CHAPTER  VII. 

A  FEW  days  after  the  date  of  the  last  chapter,  Colonel  Mor- 
ley  returned  to  Paris.  He  had  dined  with  Graham  at  Green- 
wich, had  met  him  afterwards  in  society,  and  paid  him  a  fare- 
well visit  on  the  day  before  the  Colonel's  departure;  but  the 
name,  of  Isaura  Cicogna  had  not  again  been  uttered  by  either. 
Morley  was  surprised  that  his  wife  did  not  question  him  mi- 
nutely as  to  the  mode  in  which  he  had  executed  her  delicate 
commission,  and  the  manner  as  well  as  words  with  which  Gra- 
ham had  replied  to  his  "  ventilations."  But  his  Lizzy  cut  him 
short  when  he  began  his  recital  : 

"  I  don't  want  to  hear  anything  more  about  the  man.  He 
has  thrown  away  a  prize  richer  than  his  ambition  will  ever 
gain,  even  if  it  gained  him  a  throne." 

"That  it  can't  gain  him  in  the  old  country.  The  people  are 
loyal  to  the  present  dynasty,  whatever  you  may  be  told  to  the 
contrary." 

"  Don't  be  so  horribly  literal,  Frank  ;  that  subject  is  done 
with.  How  was  the  Duchess  of  M dressed  ?  " 

But  when  the  Colonel  had  retired  to  what  the  French  call 
the  cabinet  de  travail — and  which  he  more  accurately  termed 
his  ''  smoke  den  " — and  there  indulged  in  the  cigar  which,  de- 
jpite  his  American  citizenship,  was  forbidden  in  the  drawing- 
room  of  the  tyrant  who  ruled  his  life,  Mrs.  Morley  took  from 
her  desk  a  letter  received  three  days  before,  and  brooded  ovet 
it  intently,  studying  every  word.  When  she  had  thus  reperused 


390  THE   PARISIANS. 

it,  her  tears  fell  upon  her  page.  "  Poor  Isaura !  "  she  mut- 
tered ;  "poor  Isaura  !  I  know  she  loves  him — and  how  deeply 
a  nature  like  hers  can  love  !  But  I  must  break  it  to  her.  If  I 
did  not,  she  would  remain  nursing  a  vain  dream,  au_  refuse 
every  chance  of  real  happiness  for  the  sake  of  nursing  it." 
Then  she  mechanically  folded  up  the  letter — I  need  not  say  it 
was  from  Graham  Vane — restored  it  to  the  desk,  and  remained 
musing  till  the  Colonel  looked  in  at  the  door  and  said  peremp- 
torily :  "  Very  late — come  to  bed." 

The  next  day  Madame  Savarin  called  on  Isaura. 

"  Chtre  enfant"  said  she,  "  I  have  bad  news  for  you.  Poor 
Gustave  is  very  ill — an  attack  of  the  lungs  and  fever  ;  you 
know  how  delicate  he  is." 

"  I  am  sincerely  grieved,"  said  Isaura,  in  earnest,  tender 
tones  ;  "  it  must  be  a  very  sudden  attack  :  he  was  here  last 
Thursday." 

"The  malady  only  declared  itself  yesterday  morning,  but 
surely  you  must  have  observed  how  ill  he  has  been  looking  for 
several  days  past.  It  pained  me  to  see  him." 

"I  did  not  notice  any  change  in  him,"  said  Isaura,  some- 
what conscience-stricken.  Wrapt  in  her  own  happy  thoughts, 
she  would  not  have  noticed  change  in  faces  yet  more  familiar 
to  her  than  that  of  her  young  admirer. 

"  Isaura,"  said  Madame  Savarin,  "  I  suspect  there  are  moral 
causes  for  our  friend's  failing  health.  Why  should  I  disguise 
my  meaning  ?  You  know  well  how  madly  he  is  in  love  with 
you,  and  have  you  denied  him  hope  ?  " 

"I  like  M.  Rameau  as  a  friend  ;  I  admire  him — at  times  I 
pity  him." 

"  Pity  is  akin  to  love." 

"  I  doubt  the  truth  of  that  saying,  at  all  events  as  you  apply 
it  now.  I  could  not  love  M.  Rameau  ;  I  never  gave  him  cause 
to  think  I  could." 

"  I  wish  for  both  your  sakes  that  you  could  make  me  a  dif- 
ferent answer  ;  for  his  sake,  because,  knowing  his  faults  and 
failings,  I  am  persuaded  that  they  would  vanish  in  a  com- 
panionship so  pure,  so  elevating  as  yours  :  you  could  make 
him  not  only  so  much  happier  but  so  much  better  a  man. 
Hush  !  let  me  go  on,  let  me  come  to  yourself — I  say  for  your 
sake  I  wish  it.  Your  pursuits,  your  ambition,  are  akin  to  his  ; 
you  should  not  marry  one  who  could  not  sympathize  with  you 
in  these.  If  you  did,  he  might  either  restrict  the  exercise  of 
your  genius  or  be  chafed  at  its  display.  The  only  authoress  J 
ever  knew  whose  married  lot  was  serenely  happy  to  the  last 


THE    PARISIANS.  391 

Was  the  greatest  of  English  poetesses  married  to  a  great  Eng- 
lish poet.  You  cannot,  you  ought  not  to,  devote  yourself  to 
the  splendid  career  to  which  your  genius  irresistibly  impels 
you,  without  that  counsel,  that  support,  that  protection,  which 
a  husband  alone  can  give.  My  dear  child,  as  the  wife  myself 
of  a  man  of  letters,  and  familiarized  to  all  the  gossip,  all  the 
scandal,  to  which  they  who  give  their  names  to  the  public  are 
exposed,  I  declare  that  if  I  had  a  daughter  who  inherited 
Savarin's  talents,  and  was  ambitious  of  attaining  to  his  renown, 
I  would  rather  shut  her  up  in  a  convent  than  let  her  publish  a 
book  that  was  in  every  one's  hands  until  she  had  sheltered  her 
name  under  that  of  a  husband  ;  and  if  I  say  this  of  my  child 
with  a  father  so  wise  in  the  world's  ways,  and  so  popularly  re- 
spected as  my  ban  homme,  what  must  I  feel  to  be  essential  to 
your  safety,  poor  stranger  in  our  land  !  poor  solitary  orphan  ! 
with  no  other  advice  or  guardian  than  the  singing  mistress 
whom  you  touchingly  call  "  Madre  "/  I  see  how  I  distress 
and  pain  you  ;  I  cannot  help  it.  Listen  :  The  other  evening 
Savarin  came  back  from  his  favorite  cafe  in  a  state  of  excite- 
ment that  made  me  think  he  came  to  announce  a  revolution. 
It  was  about  you  ;  he  stormed,  he  wept — actually  wept — my 
philosophical,  laughing  Savarin.  He  had  just  heard  of  that 
atrocious  wager  made  by  a  Russian  barbarian.  Every  one 
praised  you  for  the  contempt  with  which  you  had  treated  the 
savage's  insolence^  But  \\\z.\.you  should  have  been  submitted 
•to  such  an  insult  without  one  male  friend  who  had  the  right  to 
resent  and  chastise  it — you  cannot  think  how  Savarin  was 
chafed  and  galled.  You  know  how  he  admires,  but  you  can- 
not guess  how  he  reveres  you ;  and  since  then  he  says  to  me 
every  day  :  '  That  girl  must  not  remain  single.  Better  marry 
any  man  who  has  a  heart  to  defend  a  wife's  honor  and  the 
nerve  to  fire  a  pistol :  every  Frenchman  has  those  qualifica- 
tions ! ' ' 

Here  Isaura  could  no  longer  restrain  her  emotions  ;  she  burst 
into  sobs  so  vehement,  so  convulsive,  that  Madame  Savarin  be- 
came alarmed  ;  but  when  she  attempted  to  embrace  and  soothe 
her,  Isaura  recoiled  with  a  visible  shudder,  and  gasping  out, 
"  Cruel,  cruel !  "  turned  to  the  door  and  rushed  to  her  own 
room. 

A  few  minutes  afterwards  a  maid  entered  the  salon  with  a 
message  to  Madame  Savarin  that  Mademoiselle  was  so  unwell 
that  she  must  beg  Madame  to  excuse  her  return  to  the  salon. 

Later  in  the  day  Mrs.  Morley  called,  but  Isaura  would  not 
see  her. 


392  THE   PARISIANS, 

Meanwhile  poor  Rameau  was  stretched  on  his  sick  bed,  and 
in  sharp  struggle  between  life  a,nd  death.  It  is  difficult  to  dis- 
entangle, one  by  one,  all  the  threads  in  a  nature  so  complex  as 
Rameau's,  but  if  we  may  hazard  a  conjecture,  the  grief  of  dis- 
appointed love  was  not  the  immediate  cause  of  his  illness,  and 
yet  it  had  much  to  do  with  it.  The  goad  of  Isaura's  refusal 
had  driven  him  into  seeking  distraction  in  excesses  which  a 
stronger  frame  could  not  have  courted  with  impunity.  The 
man  was  thoroughly  Parisian  in  many  things,  but  especially  in 
impatience  of  any  trouble.  Did  love  trouble  him — love  could 
be  drowned  in  absinthe  ;  and  too  much  absinthe  may  be  a 
more  immediate  cause  of  congested  lungs  than  the~love  which 
the  absinthe  had  lulled  to  sleep. 

His  bedside  was  not  watched  by  hirelings.  When  first  taken 
thus  ill — too  ill  to  attend  to  his  editorial  duties — information 
was  conveyed  to  the  publisher  of  the  Se/is  Commun,  and  in  con- 
sequence of  that  information,  Victor  de  Mauleon  came  to  see 
the  sick  man.  By  his  bed  he  found  Savarin,  who  had  called, 
as  it  were,  by  chance,  and  seen  the  doctor,  who  had  said,  "  It 
is  grave.  He  must  be  well  nursed." 

Savarin  whispered  to  De  Mauleon,  "Shall  we  call  in  a  pro- 
fessional nurse,  or  a  sceur  de  charite"!" 

De  Mauleon  replied  also  in  a  whisper,  "Somebody  told  me 
that  the  man  had  a  mother." 

It  was  true — Savarin  had  forgotten  it.  Rameau  never  men- 
tioned his  parents — he  was  not  proud  of  them.  • 

They  belonged  to  a  lower  class  of  the  bourgeoisie,  retired 
shopkeepers,  and  a  Red  Republican  is  sworn  to  hate  of  the 
bourgeoisie,  high  or  low  ;  while  a  beautiful  young  author  push- 
ing his  way  into  the  Chaussee  d'Antin  does  not  proclaim  to  the 
world  that  his  parents  had  sold  hosiery  in  the  Rue  St.  Denis. 

Nevertheless  Savarin  knew  that  Rameau  had  such  parents 
still  living,  and  took  the  hint.  T\vo  hours  afterwards  Rameau 
was  leaning  his  burning  forehead  on  his  mother's  breast. 

The  next  morning  the  doctor  said  to  the  mother,  "You  are 
worth  ten  of  me.  If  you  can  stay  here,  we  shall  pull  him 
through." 

"  Stay  here  !  My  own  boy  !  "  cried  indignantly  the  poo< 
mother. 


THE    PARISIANS.  393 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

THE  day  which  had  inflicted  on  Isaura  so  keen  an  anguish, 
was  marked  by  a  great  trial  in  the  life  of  Alain  de  Roche- 
briant. 

In  the  morning  he  received  the  notice  of  "  un  commandement 
tendant  a  saisie  immobiliere"  on  the  part  of  his  creditor,  M. 
Louvier  ;  in  plain  English,  an  announcement  that  his  property 
at  Rochebriant  would  be  put  up  to  public  sale  on  a  certain  day, 
in  case  all  debts  due  to  the  mortgagee  were  not  paid  before. 
And  hour  afterwards  came  a  note  from  Duplessis  stating  that 
"  he  had  returned  from  Bretagne  on  the  previous  evening,  and 
would  be  very  happy  to  see  the  Marquis  de  Rochebriant  before 
two  o'clock,  if  not  inconvenient  to  call." 

Alain  put  the  "  commandement  "  into  his  pocket,  and  repaired 
to  the  Hotel  Duplessis. 

The  financier  received  him  with  very  cordial  civility.  Then 
he  began,  "  I  am  happy  to  say  I  left  your  excellent  aunt  in 
very  good  health.  She  honored  the  letter  of  introduction  to 
her  which  I  owe  to  your  politeness  with  the  most  amiable  hos- 
pitalities; she  insisted  on  my  removing  from  the  auberge  at 
which  I  first  put  up  and  becoming  a  guest  under  your  vener- 
able rooftree — a  most  agreeable  lady,  and  a  most  interesting 
chateau" 

"  I  fear  your  accommodation  was  in  striking  contrast  to  your 
comforts  at  Paris  ;  my  chateau  is-only  interesting  to  an  anti- 
quarian enamoured  of  ruins." 

"  Pardon  me,  'ruins'  is  an  exaggerated  expression.  I  do 
not  say  that  the  chateau  does  not  want  some  repairs,  but  they 
would  not  be  costly  ;  the  outer  walls  are  strong  enough  to 
defy  time  for  centuries  to  come,  and  a  few  internal  decorations 
and  some  modern  additions  of  furniture  would  make  the  old 
manoir  a  home  fit  for  a  prince.  I  have  been  over  the  whole 
estate,  too,  with  the  worthy  M.  Hebert — a  superb  property  ! " 

"  Which  M.  Louvier  appears  to  appreciate,"  said  Alain  with 
a  somewhat  melancholy  smile,  extending  to  Duplessis  the  men- 
acing notice. 

Duplessis  glanced  at  it,  and  said  dryly  :  "  M.  Louvier  knows 
what  he  is  about.  But  I  think  we  had  better  put  an  immediate 
stop  to  formalities  which  must  be  painful  to  a  creditor  so 
benevolent.  I  do  not  presume  to  offer  to  pay  the  interest  due 
on  the  security  you  can  give  for  the  repayment.  If  you  re- 
fused that  offer  from  so  old  a  friend. as  Lemercier,  of  course 


394  THE  PAUISIANS. 

you  could  not  accept  it  from  me.  I  make  another  proposal, 
to  which  you  can  scarcely  object.  I  do  not  like  to  give  my 
scheming  rival  on  the  Bourse  the  triumph  of  so  profoundly 
planned  a  speculation.  Aid  me  to  defeat  him.  Let  me  take 
the  mortgage  on  myself,  and  become  sole  mortgagee — hush  ! — 
on  this  condition,  that  there  should  be  an  entire  union  of  in- 
terests between  us  two  ;  that  I  should  be  at  liberty  to  make 
the  improvements  I  desire,  and  when  the  improvements  be 
made,  there  should  be  a  fair  arrangement  as  to  the  proportion 
of  profits  due  to  me  as  mortgagee  and  improver,  to  you  as 
original  owner.  Attend,  my  dear  Marquis  ;  I  am  speaking  as 
a  mere  man  of  business.  I  see  my  way  to  adding  more  than  a 
third — I  might  even  say  a  half — to  the  present  revenues  of 
Rochebriant.  The  woods  have  been  sadly  neglected,  drainage 
alone  would  add  greatly  to  their  produce.  Your  orchards 
might  be  rendered  magnificent  supplies  to  Paris  with  better 
cultivation.  Lastly,  I  would  devote  to  building  purposes  or  to 

market  gardens  all  the  lands  round  the  two  towns  of and 

.  I  think  I  can  lay  my  hands  on  suitable  speculators  for 

these  last  experiments.  In  a  word,  though  the  market  value  of 
Rochebriant,  as  it  now  stands,  would  not  be  equivalent  to  the 
debt  on  it,  in  five  or  six  years  it  could  be  made  worth — well,  I 
will  not  say  how  much — but  we  shall  be  both  well  satisfied 
with  the  result.  Meanwhile,  if  you  allow  me  to  find  purchas- 
ers for  your  timber,  and  if  you  will  not  suffer  the  Chevalier 
de  Finisterre  to  regulate  your  expenses,  you  need  have  no  fear 
that  the  interest  due  to  me  will  not  be  regularly  paid,  even 
though  I  shall  be  compelled,  for  the  first  year  or  two  at  least, 
to  ask  a  higher  rate  of  interest  than  Louvier  exacted — say  a 
quarter  per  cent,  more  ;  and  in  suggesting  that,  you  will  com- 
prehend that  this  is  now  a  matter  of  business  between  us,  and 
not  of  friendship." 

Alain  turned  his  head  aside  to  conceal  his  emotion,  and 
then  with  the  quick,  affectionate  impulse  of  the  genuine  French 
nature  threw  himself  on  the  financier's  breast  and  kissed  him 
on  both  cheeks. 

"  You  save  me  !  You  save  the  home  and  tombs  of  my  an- 
cestors !  Thank  you  I  cannot :  but  I  believe  in  God — I  pray — 
I  will  pray  for  you  as  for  a  father  ;  and  if  ever,"  he  hurried  on 
in  broken  words,  "  I  am  mean  enough  to  squander  on  idle 
luxuries  one  franc  that  I  should  save  for  the  debt  due  to  you, 
chide  me  as  a  father  would  chide  a  graceless  son." 

Moved  as  Alain  was,  Duplessis  was  moved  yet  more  deeply. 
4<  What  father  would  not  be  proud  of  such  a  son  ?  Ah,  if  I 


THE    PARISIANS.  395 

had  such  a  one ! "  he  said  softly.  Then  quickly  recovering 
his  wonted  composure,  he  added,  with  the  sardonic  smile  which 
often  chilled  his  friends  and  alarmed  his  foes,  "  Monsieur 
Louvier  is  about  to  pass  that  which  I  ventured  to  promise 
him,  a  '  mauvais  quart  <f  figure.'  Lend  me  that  commandement 
tcndant  a  saisie.  I  must  be  off  to  my  avoue"  with  instructions. 
If  you  have  no  better  engagement,  pray  dine  with  me  to-day, 
and  accompany  Valerie  and  myself  to  the  opera." 

I  need  not  say  that  Alain   accepted   the  invitation.     How 
happy  Valerie  was  that  evening  ! 


CHAPTER  IX. 

THE  next  day  Duplessis  was  surprised  by  a  visit  from  M. 
Louvier  ;  that  magnatie  of  millionnaires  had  never  before  set 
foot  in  the  house  of  his  younger  and  less  famous  rival. 

The  burly  man  entered  the  room  with  a  face  much  flushed, 
and  with  more  than  his  usual  mixture  of  jovial  bnisquerie  and 
opulent  swagger. 

"Startled  to  see  me,  I  dare  say,"  began  Louvier,  as  soon  as 
the  door  was  closed.  "I  have  this  morning  received  a  com- 
munication from  your  agent  containing  a  check  for  the  interest 
due  to  me  from  M.  Rochebriant,  and  a  formal  notice  of  your 
intention  to  pay  off  the  principal  on  behalf  of  that  popinjay 
prodigal.  Though  we  two  have  not  hitherto  been  the  best 
friends  in  the  world,  I  thought  it  fair  to  a  man  in  your  station 
to  come  to  you  direct  and  say  :  '  Cher  confrere,  what  swindler 
has  bubbled  you  ?  You  don't  know  the  real  condition  of  this 
Breton  property,  or  you  would  never  so  throw  away  your 
millions.  The  property  is  not  worth  the  mortgage  I  have  on  it 
by  30,000  louis.' " 

"  Then,  M.  Louvier,  you  will  be  30,000  louis  the  richer  if  I 
take  the  mortgage  off  your  hands." 

"  I  can  afford  the  loss — no  offence — better  than  you  can  ; 
and  I  may  have  fancies  which  I  don't  mind  paying  for,  but 
which  cannot  influence  another.  See,  I  have  brought  with  me 
the  exact  schedule  of  all  details  respecting  this  property.  You 
need  not  question  their  accuracy  ;  they  have  been  arranged  by 
the  Marquis's  own  agents,  M.  Gandrin  and  M.  Hebert.  They 
Contain,  you  will  perceive,  every  possible  item  of  revenue,  down 
to  an  apple-tree.  Now  look  at  that,  and  tell  me  if  you  are  justi- 
fied in  lending  such  a  sum  on  such  a  property." 

(<  Thank  you  very  much  for  an  interest  in  my  affairs  that  I 


396^  THE    PARISIANS. 

scarcely  ventured  to  expect  M.  Louvier  to  entertain  ;  but  I  see 
that  I  have  a  duplicate  of  this  paper,  furnished  to  me  very  hon- 
estly by  M.  Hebert  himself.  Besides,  I,  too,  have  fancies  which 
I  don't  mind  paying  for,  and  among  them  may  be  a  fancy  for 
the  lands  of  Rochebriant." 

"  Look  you,  Duplessis,  when  a  man  like  me  asks  a  favor,  you 
may  be  sure  that  he  has  the  power  to  repay  it.  Let  me  have 
my  whim  here,  and  ask  anything  you  like  from  me  in  return  !  " 

"Desoti  not  oblige  you,  but  this  has  become  not  only  a  whim 
of  mine,  but  a  matter  of  honor;  and  honor,  you  know,  my  dear 
M.  Louvier,  is  the  first  principle  of  sound  finance.  I  have  my- 
self, after  careful  inspection  of  the  Rochebriant  property,  vol- 
unteered to  its  owner  to  advance  the  money  to  pay  off  your 
hypotheque ;  and  what  would  be  said  on  the  Bourse  if  Lucien 
Duplessis  failed  in  an  obligation  ?  " 

"  I  think  I  can  guess  what  will  one  day  be  said  of  Lucien 
Duplessis  if  he  make  an  irrevocable  enemy  of  Paul  Louvier. 
Cor  bleu  !  moncher,  a  man  of  thrice  your  capital,  who  watched 
every  speculation  of  yours  with  a  hostile  eye,  might  some  beau 
jour  make  even  you  a  bankrupt !  " 

"  Forewarned,  forearmed  !  "  replied  Duplessis  imperturbably. 
"  ''Fas  cst  abhoste  doceri,' — I  mean,  '  It  is  right  to  be  taught  by  an 
enemy,'  and  I  never  remember  the  day  when  you  were  other- 
wise, and  yet  I  am  not  a  bankrupt,  though  I  receive  you  in  a 
house  which,  thanks  to  you,  is  so  modest  in  point  of  size !  " 

"Bah!  that  was  a  mistake  of  mine — and  ah  !  ah!  you  had 
your  revenge  there — that  forest !  " 

"Well,  as  a  peace-offering,  I  will  give  you  up  the  forest,  and 
content  my  ambition  as  a  landed  proprietor  with  this  bad 
speculation  of  Rochebriant  !  " 

"  Confound  the  forest,  I  don't  care  for  it  now  !  I  can  sell  my 
place  for  more  than  it  has  cost  me  to  one  of  your  Imperial  favor- 
ites. Build  a  palace  in  yourforest.  Let  me  have  Rochebriant, 
and  name  your  terms." 

"  A  thousand  pardons  !  but  I  have  already  had  the  honor  to 
inform  you,  that  I  have  contracted  an  obligation  which  does 
not  allow  me  to  listen  to  terms." 

As  a  serpent,  that,  after  all  crawlings  and  windings,  rears  it- 
self on  end,  Louvier  rose,  crest  erect  : 

"  So  then  it  is  finished.  I  came  here  disposed  to  offer  peace  ; 
you  refuse,  and  declare  war." 

"  Not  at  all,  I  do  not  declare  war  ;  I  accept  it  if  forced  on  me/ 

"  Is  that  your  last  word,  M.  Duplessis  ?" 

"  Monsieur  Louvier,  it  is." 


THE  PARISIANS.  .  397 

"  Bon  jour!" 

And  Louvier  strode  to  the  door;  here  he  paused  :  "  Take  a 
day  to  consider." 

"  Not  a  moment." 

"  Your  servant,  Monsieur,  your  very  hiirttble  servant."  Lou- 
vier vanished. 

Duplessis  leaned  his  large,  thoughtful  forehead  on  his  thin, 
nervous  hand.  "  This  loan  will  pinch  me,"  he  muttered.  "I 
must  be  very  wary  now  with  such  a  foe.  Well,  why  should  I 
care  to  be  rich  ?  Valerie's  dot,  Valerie's  happiness,  are  secured." 


CHAPTER  X. 

MADAME  SAVARIN  wrote  a  very  kind  and  very  apologetic 
letter  to  Isaura,  but  no  answer  was  returned  to  it.  Madame 
Savarin  did  not  venture  to  communicate  to  her  husband  the 
substance  of  a  conversation  which  had  ended  so  painfully.  He 
had,  in  theory,  a  delicacy  of  tact,  which,  if  he  did  not  always 
exhibit  it  in  practice,  made  him  a  very  severe  critic  of  its  defi- 
ciency in  others.  Therefore,  unconscious  of  the  offence  given, 
he  made  a  point  of  calling  at  Isaura's  apartments,  and  leaving 
word  with  her  servant  that  "  he  was  sure  she  would  be  pleased 
to  hear  M.  Rameau  was  somewhat  better,  though  still  in 
danger." 

It  was  not  till  the  third  day  after  her  interview  with  Madame 
Savarin  that  Isaura  left  her  own  room — she  did  so  to  receive 
Mrs.  Morley. 

The  fair  American  was  shocked  to  see  the  change  in  Isaura's 
countenance.  She  was  very  pale,  and  with  that  indescribable 
appearance  of  exhaustion  which  betrays  continued  want  of 
sleep  ;  her  soft  eyes  were  dim,  the  play  of  her  lips  was  gone,  her 
light  step  weary  and  languid. 

"  My  poor  darling  !  "  cried  Mrs.  Morley,  embracing  her, 
"  you  have  indeed  been  ill !  What  is  the  matter  ?  Who  attends 
you  ? " 

"  I  need  no  physician,  it  was  but  a  passing  cold — the  air  of 
Paris  is  very  trying.  Never  mind  me,  dear — what  is  the  last 
news  ?" 

Therewith  Mrs.  Morley  ran  glibly  through  the  principal  topics 
of  the  hour — the  breach  threatened  between  M.  Ollivierand  his 
former  Liberal  partisans  ;  the  tone  unexpectedly  taken  by  M. 
de  Girardin  ;  the  speculations  as  to  the  result  of  the  trial  of  the 
allsged  conspirators  against  the  Emperor's  life,  which  was  fixed 


398  THE    PARISIANS. 

to  take  place  towards  the  end  of  that  moi  th  of  June — all  matters 
of  no  slight  importance  to  the  interjsts  of  an  empire.  Sunk 
deep  into  the  recesses  of  her  fauteuil,  Isaura  seemed  to  listen 
quietly,  till  when  a  pause  came,  she  said  in  cold,  clear  tones  : 

'And  Mr.  Graham  Vane — he  has  refused  your  invitation  ?" 

'  I  am  sorry  to  say  he  has — he  is  so  engaged  in  London." 

'  I  knew  he  had  refused,"  said  Isaura,  with  a  low,  bitter  laugh. 

'  How  ?     Who  told  you  ?  "  , 

'  My  own  good  sense  told  me.  One  may  have  good  sense, 
though  one  is  a  poor  scribbler." 

"  Don't  talk  in  that  way  ;  it  is  beneath  you  to  angle  for  com- 
pliments." 

"  Compliments,  ah  !  And  so  Mr.  Vane  has  refused  to  come 
to  Paris ;  never  mind,  he  will  come  next  year.  I  shall  not  be 
in  Paris  then.  Did  Colonel  Morley  see  Mr.  Vane  ?" 

"Oh  yes  ;  two  or  three  times." 

"He  is  well?" 

"  Quite  well,  I  believe  ;  at  least  Frank  did  not  say  to  the 
contrary  ;  but,  from  what  I  hear,  he  is  not  the  person  I  took 
him  for.  Many  people  told  Frank  that  he  is  much  changed 
since  he  came  into  his  fortune — is  grown  very  stingy,  quite 
miserly  indeed ;  declines  even  a  seat  in  Parliament  because  of 
the  expense.  It  is  astonishing  how  money  does  spoil  a  man." 

"  He  had  come  into  his  fortune  when  he  was  here.  Money 
had  not  spoiled  him  then." 

Isaura  paused,  pressing  her  hands  tightly  together  ;  then  she 
suddenly  rose  to  her  feet,  the  color  on  her  cheek  mantling  and 
receding  rapidly,  and  fixing  on  her  startled  visitor  eyes  no  longer 
dim,  but  with  something  half  fierce,  half  imploring  in  the 
passion  of  their  gaze,  said  :  "Your  husband  spoke  of  me  to 
Mr.  Vane  :  I  know  he  did.  What  did  Mr.  Vane  answer?  Do 
not  evade  my  question.  The  truth  !  the  truth  !  I  only  ask 
the  truth  !  " 

"  Give  me  your  hand  ;  sit  here  beside  me,  dearest  child." 

"  Child  ! — no,  I  am  a  woman  !  Weak  as  a  woman,  but  strong 
as  a  woman  too  !  The  truth  !  " 

Mrs.  Morley  had  come  prepared  to  carry  out  the  resolution 
she  had  formed  and  "  break"  to  Isaura  "the  truth,"  that  which 
the  girl  now  demanded.  But  then  she  had  meant  to  break  the 
truth  in  her  own  gentle,  gradual  way.  Thus  suddenly  called 
upon,  her  courage  failed  hej;.  She  burst  into  tears.  Isaura 
gazed  at  her  dry-eyed. 

"  Your  tears  answer  me.  M.  Vane  has  heard  that  I  have  been 
insulted.  A  man  like  him  does  not  stoop  to  love  for  a  woman 


THE    PARISIANS. 

who  has  known  an  insult.  I  do  not  blame  him  ;  I  honor  him 
the  more — he  is  right." 

"  No — no — no  ! — you  insulted  !  Who  dared  to  insult  you  ? 
(Mrs.  Morley  had  never  heard  the  story  about  the  Russian 
Prince.)  Mr.  Vane  spoke  to  Frank,  and  writes  of  you  to  me  as 
of  one  whom  it  is  impossible  not  to  admire,  to  respect  ;  but — 
I  cannot  say  it — you  will  have  the  truth — there,  read  and  judge 
for  yourself."  And  Mrs.  Morley  drew  forth  and  thrust  into 
Isaura's  hands  the  letter  she  had  concealed  from  her  husband. 
The  letter  was  not  very  long  ;  it  began  with  expressions  of 
warm  gratitude  to  Mrs.  Morley,  not  for  her  invitation  only,  but 
for  the  interest  she  had  conceived  in  his  happiness.  It  then 
went  on  thus  : 

"  I  join  with  my  whole  heart  in  all  that  you  say,  with  such 
eloquent  justice,  of  the  mental  and  personal  gifts  so  bounteously 
lavished  by  nature  on  the  young  lady  whom  you  name. 

"  No  one  can  feel  more  sensible  than  I  of  the  charm  of  so 
exquisite  a  loveliness  ;  no  one  can  more  sincerely  join  in  the  be- 
lief that  the  praise  which  greets  the  commencement  of  her  career 
is  but  the  whisper  of  the  praise  that  will  cheer  its  progress  with 
louder  and  louder  plaudits. 

"  He  only  would  be  worthy  of  her  hand,  who,  if  not  equal  to 
herself  in  genius,  would  feel  raised  into  partnership  with  it  by 
sympathy  with  its  objects  and  joy  in  its  triumphs.  For  myself, 
the  same  pain  with  which  I  should  have  learned  she  had  adopted 
the  profession  which  she  originally  contemplated,  saddened  and 
stung  me  when,  choosing  a  career  that  confers  a  renown  yet 
more  lasting  than  the  stage,  she  no  less  left  behind  her  the  peace- 
ful immunities  of  private  life.  Were  I  even  free  to  consult  only 
my  own  heart  in  the  choice  of  the  one  sole  partner  of  my  des- 
tinies (which  I  cannot  at  present  honestly  say  that  I  am,  though 
I  had  expected  to  be  so  ere  this,  when  I  last  saw  you  at  Paris)  ; 
could  I  even  hope — which  I  have  no  right  to  do — that  I  could 
chain  to  myself  any  private  portion  of  thoughts  which  now  flow 
into  the  large  channels  by  which  poets  enrich  the  blood  of  the 
world — still  (I  say  it  in  self-reproach,  it  may  be  the  fault  of  my 
English  rearing,  it  may  rather  be  the  fault  of  an  egotism  pecul- 
iar to  myself) — still  I  doubt  if  I  could  render  happy  any  woman 
whose  world  could  not  be  narrowed  to  the  home  that  she 
adorned  and  blessed. 

"And  yet  not  even  the  jealous  tyranny  of  man's  love  could 
dare  say  to  natures  like  hers  of  whom  we  speak,  '  Limit  to  the 
household  glory  of  one  the  light  which  genius  has  placed  in  its 
firmament  for  the  use  and  enjoyment  of  all.'  " 


46(3  THE   PARISIANS. 

"  I  thank  you  so  much,"  said  Isaura  calmly  ;  "  suspense 
makes  a  woman  so  weak,  certainty  so  strong."  Mechanically 
she  smoothed  and  refolded  the  letter — mechanically,  but  with 
slow,  lingering  hands — then  she  extended  it  to  her  friend, 
smiling. 

"  Nay,  will  you  not  keep  it  yourself?"  said  Mrs.  Morley. 
"  The  more  you  examine  the  narrow-minded  prejudices,  the 
English  arrogant  man's  jealous  dread  of  superiority — nay,  of 
equality — in  the  woman  he  can  only  value  as  he  does  his  house 
or  his  horse,  because  she  is  his  exclusive  property,  the  more 
you  will  be  rejoiced  to  find  yourself  free  for  a  more  worthy 
choice.  Keep  the  letter  ;  read  it  till  you  feel  for  the  writer  for- 
giveness and  disdain." 

Isaura  took  back  the  letter,  and  leaned  her  cheek  on  her  hand, 
looking  dreamily  into  space.  It  was  some  moments  before  she 
replied,  and  her  words  then  had  no  reference  to  Mrs.  Morley's 
consolatory  exhortation. 

"  He  was  so  pleased  when  he  learned  that  I  renounced  the 
career  on  which  I  had  set  my  ambition.  I  thought  he  would 
have  been  so  pleased  when  I  sought  in  another  career  to  raise 
myself  nearer  to  his  level — I  see  now  how  sadly  I  was  mistaken. 
All  that  perplexed  me  before  in  him  is  explained.  I  did  not 
guess  how  foolishly  I  had  deceived  myself  till  three  days 
ago  ;  then  I  did  guess  it  ;  and  it  was  that  guess  which  tortured 
me  so  terribly  that  I  could  not  keep  my  heart  to  myself  when  I 
saw  you  to-day  ;  in  spite  of  all  womanly  pride  it  would  force  its 
way — to  the  truth.  Hush  !  I  must  tell  you  what  was  said  to 
me  by  another  friend  of  mine — a  good  friend,  a  wise  and  kind 
one.  Yet  I  was  so  angry  when  she  said  it  that  I  thought  I 
could  never  see  her  more." 

"My  sweet  darling!  who  was  this  friend,  and  what  did  she 
say  to  you  ? " 

"The  friend  was  Madame  Savarin." 

"  No  woman  loves  you  more  except  myself — and  she  said  ? " 

"  That  she  would  have  suffered  no  daughter  of  hers  to  com- 
mit her  name  to  the  talk  of  the  world  as  I  have  done  ;  be  ex- 
posed to  the  risk  of  insult  as  I  have  been  ;  until  she  had  the 
shelter  and  protection  denied  to  me.  And  I  having  thus  over- 
leaped the  bound  that  a  prudent  mother  would  prescribe  to  her 
child,  have  become  one  whose  hand  men  do  not  seek,  unless 
they  themselves  take  the  same  roads  to  notoriety.  Do  you  not 
think  she  was  right  ?  " 

"  Not  as  you  so  morbidly  put  it,  silly  girl — certainly  not 
right.  But  I  do  wish  that  you  had  the  shelter  and  protec- 


fttfi  PARISIANS.  40f 

tion  which  Madame  Savarin  meant  to  exp.ress  ;  I  do  wish  that 
you  were  happily  married  to  one  very  different  from  Mr. 
Vane — one  who  would  be  more  proud  of  your  gei>ius  than  of 
your  beauty — one  who  would  say,  'My  name,  safer  far  in  its 
enduring  nobility  than  those  that  depend  on  titles  and  lands— 
which  are  held  on  the  tenure  of  the  popular  breath — must  be 
honored  by  prosperity,  for  She  has  deigned  to  make  it  hers. 
No  democratic  revolution  can  disennoble  me." 

"  Ay,  ay,  you  believe  that  men  will  be  found  to  think  with 
complacency  that  they  owe  to  a  wife  a  name  that  they  could 
not  achieve  for  themselves.  Possibly  there  are  such  men. 
Where? — among  those  that  are  already  united  by  sympathies 
in  the  same  callings,  the  same  labors,  the  same  hopes  and  fears 
with  the  women  who  have  left  behind  them  the  privacies  of 
home.  Madame  de  Grantmesnil  was  wrong.  Artists  should 
wed  with  artists.  True — true  !  " 

"  Here  she  passed  her  hand  over  her  forehead — it  was  a 
pretty  way  of  hers  when  seeking  to  concentrate  thought — and 
was  silent  a  moment  or  so. 

"  Did  you  ever  feel,"  she  then  asked  dreamily,  "  that  there 
are  moments  in  life  when  a  dark  curtain  seems  to  fall  over  one's 
past  that  a  day  before  was  so  clear,  so  blended  with  the  pres- 
ent ?  One  cannot  any  longer  look  behind  ;  the  gaze  is  at- 
tracted onward,  and  a  track  of  fire  flashes  upon  the  future — 
the  future  which  yesterday  was  invisible.  There  is  a  line  by 
some  English  poet — Mr.  Vane  once  quoted  it,  not  to  me,  but 
to  M.  Savarin,  and  in  illustration  of  his  argument  that  the  most 
complicated  recesses  of  thought  are  best  reached  by  the  sim- 
plest forms  of  expression.  I  said  to  myself,  '  I  will  study  that 
truth  if  ever  I  take  to  literature  as  I  have  taken  to  song ';  and — 
yes — it  was  that  evening  that  the  ambition  fatal  to  woman 
fixed  on  me  its  relentless  fangs — at  Enghien— we  were  on  the 
lake — the  sun  was  setting." 

"  But  you  do  not  tell  me  the  line  that  so  impressed  you,"  said 
Mrs.  Morley,  with  a  woman's  kindly  tact. 

"  The  line — which  line  ?  Oh,  I  remember  ;  the  line  was 
this : 

'  I  see  as  from  a  tower  the  end  of  all.' 

And  now — kiss  me,  dearest — never  a  word  again  to  me  about 
this  conversation  :  never  a  word  about  Mr.  Vane — the  dark 
curtain  has  fallen  on  the  past." 


4O2  THE    PARISIANS, 

'    CHAPTER  XL 

I 

MEN  and  women  are  much  more  like  each  other  in  certain 
large  elements  of  character  than  is  generally  supposed,  but  it  is 
that  very  resemblance  which  makes  their  differences  the  more 
incomprehensible  to  each  other  ;  just  as  in  politics,  theology, 
or  that  most  disputatious  of  all. things  disputable,  metaphysics, 
the  nearer  the  reasoners  approach  each  other  in  points  that  to 
an  uncritical  bystander  seem  the  most  important,  the  more  sure 
they  are  to  start  off  in  opposite  directions  upon  reaching  the 
speck'of  a  pin-prick. 

-  Now  there  are  certain  grand  meeting-places  between  man  and 
woman;  the  grandest  of  all  is  on  the  ground  of  love,  and  yet  here 
also  is  the  great  field  of  quarrel.  And  here  the  teller  of  a  tale 
such  as  mine  ought,  if  he  is  sufficiently  wise  to  be  humble,  to 
know  that  it  is  almost  profanation  if,  as  man,  he  presumes  to 
enter-  the  penetralia  of  a  woman's  innermost  heart,  and  repeat, 
as  a  man  would  repeat,  all  the  vibrations  of  sound  which  the 
heart  of  a  woman  sends  forth  undistinguishable  even  to  her 
own  ear. 

I  know  Isaura  as  intimately  as  if  I  had  rocked  her  in  her 
cradle,  played  with  her  in  her  childhood,  educated  and  trained 
her  in  her  youth  ;  and  yet  I  can  no  more  tell  you  faithfully 
what  passed  in  her  mind  during  the  forty-eight  hours  that  inter- 
vened between  her  conversation  with  that  American  lady  and 
her  reappearance  in  some  commonplace  drawing-room,  than  I 
can  tell  you  what  the  Man  in  the  Moon  might  feel  if  the  sun 
that  his  world  reflected  were  blotted  out  of  creation. 

I  can  only  say  that  when  she  reappeared  in  that  .common- 
place drawing-room  world,  there  was  a  change  in  her  face  not 
very  perceptible  to  the  ordinary  observer.  If  anything,  to  his 
eye  she  was  handsomer — the  eye  was  brighter,  the  complexion 
(always  lustrous,  though  somewhat  pale,  the  limpid  paleness 
that  suits  so  well  with  dark  hair)  was  yet  more  lustrous  ;  it 
was  flushed  into  delicate  rose  hues — hues  that  still  better  suit 
with  dark  hair.  What,  then,  was  the  change,  and  change  not 
for  the  better  ?  The  lips,  once  so  pensively  sweet,  had  grown 
hard  ;  on  the  brow  that  had  seemed  to  laugh  when  the  lips  did. 
there  was  no  longer  sympathy  between  brow  and  lip  ;  there 
was  scarcely  seen  a  fine,  thread-like  line  that  in  a  few  years 
would  be  a  furrow  on  the  space  between  the  eyes  ;  the  voice 
-was  not  so  tenderly  soft ;  the  step  was  haughtier.  What  all 
change  denoted  it  is  for  a  woman  to  decide — I  can  only 


THE   PARISIANS.  403 

guess.  Tn  the  mean  while,  Mademoiselle  Cicogna  had  sent  her 
servant  daily  to  inquire  after  M.  Rameau.  That,  I  think,  she 
would  have  done  under,  any  circumstances.  Meanwhile,  too, 
she  had  called  on  Madame  Savarin  ;  made  it  up  with  her ; 
sealed  the  reconciliation  by  a  cold  kiss.  That,  too,  under 
any  circumstances  I  think  she  would  have  done — under  some 
circumstances  the  kiss  might  have  been  less  cold. 

There  was  one  thing  unwonted  in  her  habits.  I  mention  it, 
though  it  is  only  a  woman  who  can  say  if  it  means  anything 
worth  noticing. 

For  six  days  she  had  left  a  letter  from  Madame  de  Grant- 
mesnil  unanswered.  With  Madame  de  Grantmesnil  was  con- 
nected the  whole  of  her  innermost  life — from  the  day  when  the 
lonely,  desolate  child  had  seen,  beyond  the  dusty  thoroughfares 
of  life,  gleams  of  the  faery  land  in  poetry  and  art,  onward 
through  her  restless,  dreamy,  aspiring  youth — onward — on- 
ward— till  now,  through  all  that  constitutes  the  glorious  reality 
that  we  call  romance. 

Never  before  had  she  left  for  days  unanswered  letters  which 
were  to  her  as  Sibylline  leaves  to  some  unquiet  neophyte  yearn- 
ing for  solutions  to  enigmas  suggested,  whether  by  the  world 
without  or  by  the  soul  within.  For  six  days  Madame  de 
Grantmesnil's  letter  remained  unanswered,  unread,  neglected, 
thrust  out  of  sight ;  just  as  when  some  imperious  necessity 
compels  us  to  grapple  with  a  world  that  is,  we  cast  aside  the 
romance  which,  in  our  holiday  hours,  had  beguiled  us  to  a 
world  with  which  we  have  interests  and  sympathies  no  more. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

* 

GUSTAVE  recovered,  but  slowly.  The  physician  pronounced 
him  out  of  all  immediate  danger,  but  said  frankly  to  him,  and 
somewhat  more  guardedly  to  his  parents,  "There  is  ample 
cause  to  beware."  "  Look  you,  my  young  friend,"  he  added 
to  Rameau,  "  mere  brain-work  seldom  kills  a  man  once  accus- 
tomed to  it  like  you  ;  but  heart-work,  and  stomach-work,  and 
nerve-work,  added  to  brain-work,  may  soon  consign  to  the 
coffin  a  frame  ten  times  more  robust  than  yours.  Write  as 
much  as  you  will — that  is  your  vocation  ;  but  it  is  not  your  vo- 
cation to  drink  absinthe,  to  preside  at  orgies  in  the  Maison 
Doree.  Regulate  yourself,  and  not  after  the  fashion  of  the 
fabulous  Don  Juan.  Marry,  live  soberly  and  quietly,  and 
you  may  survive  the  grandchildren  of  viveurs.  Go  on  as  you 


464  THE   PARISIANS. 

have  done,  and  before  the  year  is  out  you  are  til  Pere  la 
Chaise." 

Rameau  listened  languidly,  but  with  a  profound  conviction 
that  the  physician  thoroughly  understood  his  case. 

Lying  helpless  on  his  bed,  he  had  no  desire  for  orgies  at  the 
Maison  Doree  ;  with  parched  lips  thirsty  for  innocent  tisane  of 
lime  blossoms,  the  thought  of  absinthe  was  as  odious  to  him  as 
the  liquid  fire  of  Phlegethon.  If  ever  sinner  became  suddenly 
convinced  that  there  was  a  good  deal  to  be  said  in  favor  of  a 
moral  life,  that  sinner  at  the  moment  I  speak  of  was  Gustave 
Rameau.  Certainly  a  moral  life — "  Damns  et  placens  uxor," 
were  essential  to  the  poet  who,  aspiring  to  immortal  glory,  was 
condemned  to  the  ailments  of  a  very  perishable  frame. 

"Ah,"  he  murmured  plaintively  to  himself,  "that  girl  Isaura 
can  have  no  true  sympathy  with  genius  !  It  is  no  ordinary 
man  that  she  will  kill  in  me  ! " 

And  so  murmuring  he  fell  asleep.  When  he  woke  and  found 
his  head  pillowed  on  his  mother's  breast,  it  was  much  as  a  sen- 
sitive, delicate  man  may  wake  after  having  drunk  too  much  the 
night  before.  Repentant,  mournful,  maudlin,  he  began  to  weep, 
and  in  the  course  of  his  weeping  he  confided  to  his  mother  the 
secret  of  his  heart. 

Isaura  had  refused  him  ;  that  refusal  had  made  him  des- 
perate. 

"Ah  !  with  Isaura  how  changed  would  be  his  habits!  How 
pure !  How  healthful ! "  His  mother  listened  fondly,  and 
did  her  best  to  comfort  him  and  cheer  his  drooping  spirits. 

She  told  him  of  Isaura's  messages  of  inquiry  duly  twice  a 
day.  Rameau,  who  knew  more  about  women  in  general,  and 
Isaura  in  particular,  than  his  mother  conjectured,  shook  his 
head  mournfully.  "  She  could  not  do  less,"  he  said.  "  Has 
no  one  offered  to  do  more  ?"  He  thought  of  Julie  when  he 
asked  that  ;  Madame  Rameau  hesitated. 

These  poor  Parisians  !  it  is  the  mode  to  preach  against  them  ; 
and  before  my  book  closes,  I  shall  have  to  preach — no,  not  to 
preach,  but  to  imply — plenty  of  faults  to  consider  and  amend. 
Meanwhile  I  try  my  best  to  take  them,  as  the  philosophy  of 
life  tells  us  to  take  other  people,  for  what  they  are. 

I  do  not  think  the  domestic  relations  of  the  Parisian  bour- 
geoisie are  as  bad  as  they  are  said  to  be  in  French  novels. 
Madame  Rameau  is  not  an  uncommon  type  of  her  class.  She 
had  been  when  she  first  married  singularly  handsome.  It  was 
from  her  that  Gustave  inherited  his  beauty  ;  and  her  husband 
was  a  very  ordinary  type  of  the  French  shopkeeper  ;  very 


THE    PARISIANS.  405 

plain,  by  no  means  intellectual,  but  gay,  good-humored,  devot- 
edly attached  to,  his  wife,  and  with  implicit  trust  in  her  con- 
jugal virtue.  Never  was  trust  better  placed.  There  was  not 
a  happier  nor  a  more  faithful  couple  in  the  quartier  in  which 
they  resided.  Madame  Rameau  hesitated  when  her  boy,  think- 
ing of  Julie,  asked  if  no  one  had  done  more  than  send  to  in- 
quire after  him  as  Isaura  had  done. 

After  that  hesitating  pause  she  said,  "  Yes — a  young  lady 
calling  herself  Mademoiselle  Julie  Caumartin  wished  to  instal 
herself  here  as  your  nurse.  When  I  said  :  '  But  I  am  his  mother, 
he  needs  no  other  nurses,'  she  would  have  retreated,  and 
looked  ashamed — poor  thing  !  I  don't  blame  her  if  she  loved 
my  son.  But,  my  son,  I  say  this  ;  if  you  love  her,  don't  talk 
to  me  about  that  Mademoiselle  Cicogna  ;  and  if  you  love 
Mademoiselle  Cicogna,  why,  then  your  father  will  take  care 
that  the  poor  girl  who  loved  you — not  knowing  that  you  loved 
another — is  not  left  to  the  temptation  of  penury." 

Rameau's  pale  lips  withered  into  a  phantom-like  sneer.  Julie  ! 
the  resplendent  Julie  ! — true,  only  a  ballet-dancer,  but  whose 
equipage  in  the  Bois  had  once  been  the  envy  of  duchesses — Julie! 
who  had  sacrificed  fortune  for  his  sake  ;  who,  freed  from  him, 
could  have  millionnaires  again  at  her  feet  ! — Julie  !  to  be  saved 
from  penury,  as  a  shopkeeper  would  save  an  erring  nurse- 
maid— Julie  !  the  irrepressible  Julie  !  who  had  written  to  him, 
the  day  before  his  illness,  in  a  pen  dipped  not  in  ink,  but  in 
blood  from  a  vein  she  had  opened  in  her  arm  :  "  Traitor  ! 
I  have  not  seen  thee  for  three  days.  Dost  thou  dare  to  love 
another  ?  If  so,  I  care  not  how  thou  attempt  to  conceal  it — 
woe  to  her  !  Jngrat !  woe  to  thee  !  Love  is  not  love,  unless 
when  betrayed  by  Love,  it  appeals  to  death.  Answer  me, 
quick — quick. — JULIE." 

Poor  Gustave  thought  of  that  letter  and  groaned.  Certainly 
his  mother  was  right — he  ought  to  get  rid  of  Julie  ;  but  he  did 
not  clearly  see  now  Julie  was  to  be  got  rid  of.  He  replied  to 
Madame  Rameau  peevishly  :  "  Don't  trouble  your  head  about 
Mademoiselle  Caumartin  ;  she  is  in  no  want  of  money.  Of 
course,  if  I  could  hope  for  Isaura — rbut,  alas !  I  dare  not  hope. 
Give  me  my  tisane." 

When  the  doctor  called  next  day,  he  looked  grave,  and 
drawing  Madame  Rameau  into  the  next  room,  he  said,  "We 
are  not  getting  on  so  well  as  I  had  hoped  ;  the  fever  is  gone, 
but  there  is  much  to  apprehend  from  the  debility  left  behind. 
His  spirits  are  sadly  depressed."  Then  added  the  doctor, 
pleasantly,  and  with  that  wonderful  insight  into  our  complex 


406  THE    PARISIANS. 

humanity  in  which  physicians  excel  poets,  and  in  which  Paris- 
ian physicians  are  not  excelled  by  any  physicians  in  the  world  : 
"  Can't  you  think  of  any  bit  of  good  news — that  '  M.  Thiers 
raves  about  your  son's  last  poem  ';  that  '  it  is  a  question  among 
the  Academicians  between  him  and  Jules  Janin';  or  that  '  the 

beautiful  Duchesse  de has  been  placed  in  a  lunatic  asylum 

because  she  has  gone  mad  for  love  of  a  certain  young  Red 
Republican  whose  name  begins  with  R.' — can't  you  think  of 
any  bit  of  similar  good  news  ?  If  you  can,  it  will  be  a  tonic  to 
the  relaxed  state  of  your  dear  boy's  amour  propre,  compared  to 
Avhich  all  the  drugs  in  the  pharmacopoeia  are  moonshine  and 
water  ;  and  meanwhile  be  sure  to  remove  him  to  your  owri 
house,  and  out  of  the  reach  of  his  giddy  young  friends,  as  soon 
as  you  possibly  can." 

When  that  great  authority  thus  left  his  patient's  case  in  the 
hands  of  the  mother,  she  said  :  "  The  boy  shall  be  saved." 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

ISAURA  was  seated  beside  the  Venosta,  to  whom,  of  late,  she 
seemed  to  cling  with  greater  fondness  than  ever,  working  at 
some  piece  of  embroidery — a  labor  from  which  she  had  been 
estranged  for  years  ;  but  now  she  had  taken  writing,  reading, 
music,  into  passionate  disgust.  Isaura  was  thus  seated,  silently 
intent  upon  her  work,  and  the  Venosta  in  full  talk,  when  the 
servant  announced  Madame  Rameau. 

The  name  startled  both  ;  the  Venosta  had  never  heard  that 
the  poet  had  a  mother  living,,  and  immediately  jumped  to  the 
conclusion  that  Madame  Rameau  must  be  a  wife  he  had 
hitherto  kept  unrevealed.  And  when  a  woman,  still  very  hand- 
some, with  a  countenance  grave  and  sad,  entered  the  salon, 
the  Venosta  murmured  :  "  The  husband's  perfidy  reveals  itself 
on  a  wife's  face,"  and  took  out  her  handkerchief  in  preparation 
for  sympathizing  tears. 

"  Mademoiselle,"  said  the  visitor,  halting,  with  eyes  fixed  on 
Isaura,  "  pardon  my  intrusion — my  son  has  the  honor  to  be 
known  to  you.  Every  one  who  knows  him  must  share  in  my 
sorrow — so  young,  so  promising,  and  in  such  danger — my  poor 
boy !  "  Madame  Rameau  stopped  abruptly.  Her  tears 
forced  their  way  ;  she  turned  aside  to  conceal  them. 

In  her  twofold  condition  of  being — womanhood  and  genius— 
Isaura  was  too  largely  endowed  with  that  quickness  of  sympa.» 


THE    PARISIANS.  407 

thy  which  distinguishes  woman  from  man,  and  genius  from 
talent,  not  to  be  wondrously  susceptible  to  pity. 

Already  she  had  wound  her  arm  round  the  grieving  mother, 
already  drawn  her  to  the  seat  from  which  she  herself  had  risen, 
and  bending  over  her  had  said  some  words — true,  conventional 
enough  in  themselves,  but  cooed  forth  in  a  voice  the  softest  I 
ever  expect  to  hear,  save  in  dreams,  on  this  side  of  the  grave. 

Madame  Rameau  swept  her  hand  over  her  eyes,  glanced 
round  the  room,  and  noticing  the  Venosta  in  dressing-robe  and 
slippers,  staring  with  those  Italian  eyes,  in  seeming  so  quietly 
innocent,  in  reality  so  searchingly  shrewd,  she  whispered  plead- 
ingly :  "  May  I  speak  to  you  a  few  minutes  alone  ?  "  This  was 
not  a  request  that  Isaura  could  refuse,  though  she  was  embar- 
rassed and  troubled  by  the  surmise  of  Madame  Rameau's  object 
in  asking  it  ;  accordingly  she  led  her  visitor  into  the  adjoining 
room,  and  making  an  apologetic  sign  to  the  Venosta,  closed 
the  door. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

WHEN  they  were  alone,  Madame  Rameau  took  Isaura's  hand 
in  both  her  own,  and  gazing  wistfully  into  her  face,  said  :  "  No 
wonder  you  are  so  lov.ed — yours  is  the  beauty  that  sinks  into 
the  heart  and  rests  there.  I  prize  my  boy  more,  now  that  I 
have  seen  you.  But,  oh,  Mademoiselle  !  pardon  me — do  not 
withdraw  your  hand — pardon  the  mother  who  comes  from  the 
sick-bed  of  her  only  son  and  asks  it  you  Anil  assist  to  save  him  ! 
A  word  from  you  is  life  or  death  to  him  ' ' 

"  Nay,  nay,  do  not  speak  thus,  Madame  ;  your  son  knows 
how  much  I  value,  how  sincerely  1  return,  his  friendship  ;  but — 
but,"  she  paused  a  moment,  <*i\d  continued  sadly  and  with 
tearful  eyes,  "I  have  no  heart  to  give  to  him — to  any  one." 

"I  do  not — I  would  nor  if  I  dared — ask  what  it  would  be 
violence  to  yourself  to  promise.  I  do  not  ask  you  to  bid  me 
return  to  my  son  and  say  :  '  Hope  and  recover,'  but  let  me  take 
some  healing  message  from  your  lips.  If  I  understand  your 
words  rightly,  I  at  least  may  say  that  you  do  not  give  to 
another  the  hopes  you  deny  to  him  ?  " 

"  So  far  you  understand  me  rightly,  Madame.  It  has  been 
said  that  romance-writers  give  away  so  much  of  their  hearts  to 
heroes  or  heroines  of  their  own  creation,  that  they  leave  noth- 
ing Vorth  the  giving  to  human  beings  like  themselves.  Per- 
haps it  is  so  ;  yet,  Madame,"  added  Isaura,  with  a  smile  of 


408  THE    PARISIANS. 

exquisite  sweetness  in  its  melancholy,  "  I  have  heart  enough 
left  to  feel  for  you." 

Madame  Rameau  was  touched.  "Ah,  Mademoiselle,  I  do  not 
believe  in  the  saying  you  have  quoted.  But  I  must  not  abuse 
your  goodness  by  pressing  further  upon  you  subjects  from  which 
you  shrink.  Only  one  word  more  :  you  know  that  my  husband 
and  I  are  but  quiet  tradesfolk,  not  in  the  society,  nor  aspiring 
to  it,  to  which  my  son's  talents  have  raised  himself  ;  yet  dare 
J  ask  that  you  will  not  close  here  the  acquaintance  that  1  have 
obtruded  on  you  ?  Dare  I  ask  that  I  may,  now  and  then,  call 
on  you — that  now  and  then  I  may  see  you  at  my  own  home  ? 
Believe  that  I  would  not  here  ask  anything  which  your  own 
mother  would  disapprove  if  she  overlooked  disparities  of  sta- 
tion. Humble  as  our  home  is,  slander  never  passed  its  thresh- 
old." 

"  Ah,  Madame,  I  and  the  Signora  Venosta,  whom  in  our 
Italian  tongue  I  call  mother,  can  but  feel  honored  and  grateful 
whenever  it  pleases  you  to  receive  visits  from  us." 

"It  would  be  a  base  return  for  such  gracious  compliance  with 
my  request  if  I  concealed  from  you  the  reason  why  I  pray 
Heaven  to  bless  you  for  that  answer.  The  physician  says  that 
it  may  be  long  before  my  son  is  sufficiently  convalescent  to 
dispense  with  a  mother's  care,  and  resume  his  former  life  and 
occupation  in  the  great  world.  It  is  everything  for  us  if  we  can 
coax  him  into  coming  under  our  own  roof-tree.  This  is  difficult 
to  do.  It  is  natural  for  a  young  man  launched  into  the  world  to 
like  his  own  chcz  lui.  Then  what  will  happen  toGustave? 
He,  lonely  and  heart-stricken,  will  ask  friends,  young  as  him- 
self, but  far  stronger,  to  come  and  cheer  him  ;  or  he  will  seek 
to  distract  his  thoughts  by  the  overwork  of  his  brain  ;  in  either 
case  he  is  doomed.  But  I  have  stronger  motives  yet  to  fix  him 
awhile  at  our  hearth.  This  is  just  the  moment,  once  lost  never 
to  be  regained,  when  soothing  companionship,  gentle,  reproach- 
less  advice,  can  fix  him  lastingly  in. the  habits  and  modes  of 
life  which  will  banish  all  fears  of  his*future  from  the  hearts  of 
his  parents.  You  at  least  honor  him  with  friendship,  with 
kindly  interest — you  at  least  would  desire  to  wean  him  from  all 
that  a  friend  may  disapprove  or  lament — a  creature  whom 
Providence  meant  to  be  good  and  perhaps  great.  If  I  say  to 
him  :  '  It  will  be  long  before  you  can  go  out  and  see  your 
friends,  but  at  my  house  your  friends  shall  come  and  see  you — 
among  them  Signora  Venosta  and  Mademoiselle  Cicogria  will 
now  and  then  drop  in  ' — my  victory  is  gained  and  my  son  is 
saved," 


THE   PAkiStANS.  409 

"  Madame,"  said  Isaura,  half  sobbing,  "  what  a  blessing  to 
have  a  mother  like  you  !  Love  so  noble  ennobles  those  who 
hear  its  voice.  Tell  your  son  how  ardently  I  wish  him  to  be 
well,  and  to  fulfil  more  than  the  promise  of  his  genius  ;  tell  him 
also  this — how  I  envy  him  his  mother !  " 


CHAPTER  XV. 

IT  needs  no  length  of  words  to  inform  thee,  my  intelligent 
reader,  be  thou  man  or  woman — but  more  especially  woman — of 
the  consequences  following  each  other,  as  wave  follows  wave 
in  a  tide,  that  resulted  from  the  interview  with  which  my  last 
chapter  closed.  Gustave  is  removed  to  his  parents'  house  ;  he 
remains  for  weeks  confined  within  doors,  or,  on  sunny  days, 
taken  an  hour  or  so  in  his  own  carriage,  drawn  by  the  horse 
bought  from  Rochebriant,  into  by-roads  remote  from  the  fash- 
ionable wot  Id  ;  Isaura  visits  his  mother,  liking,  respecting,  in- 
fluenced by  her  more  and  more  ;  in  those  visits  she  sits  beside 
the  sofa  on  which  Rameau  reclines.  Gradually,  gently — more 
and  more  by  his  mother's  lips — is  impressed  on  her  the  belief 
that  it  is  in  her  power  to  save  a  human  life,  and  to  animate  its 
career  towards  those  goals  which  are  never  based  "wholly  upon 
earth  in  the  earnest  eyes  of  genius,  or  perhaps  in  the  yet  more 
upward  vision  of  a  pure-souled,  believing  woman. 

And  Gustave  himself,  as  he  passes  through  the  slow  stages 
of  convalescence,  seems  so  gently  softened  in  character  ;  seems 
so  gratefully  to  ascribe  to  her  every  step  in  his  progress  ; 
seems  so  refined  from  the  old  affectations,  so  ennobled  above 
the  old  cynicism  ;  and,  above  all,  so  needing  her  presence,  so 
sunless  without  it,  that — well,  need  I  finish  the  sentence  ? — the 
reader  will  complete  what  I  leave  unsaid. 

Enough,  that  one  day  Isaura  returned  home  from  a  visit  at 
Madame  Rameau's  with  the  knowledge  that  her  hand  was 
pledged,  her  future  life  disposed  of  ;  and  that,  escaping  from 
the  Venosta,  whom  she  so  fondly,  and  in  her  hunger  for  a 
mother's  love,  called  Madre,  the  girl  shut  herself  up  in  her  own 
room  with  locked  doors. 

Ah,  poor  child  !  Ah,  sweet-voiced  Isaura  !  whose  delicate 
image  I  feel  myself  too  rude  and  too  hard  to  transfer  to  this 
page  in  the  purity  of  its  outlines  and  the  blended  softnesses  of 
its  hues — thou  who,  when  saying  things  serious  in  the  words 
men  use,  saidst  them  with  a  seriousness  so  charming,  and  with 
looks  so  feminine  ;  thou,  of  whom  no  man  I  ever  knew  was 


410  THE    PARISIANS, 

quite  worthy — ah,  poor,  simple,  miserable  girl,  as  I  see  thee 
now  in  the  solitude  of  that  white-curtained,  virginal  room  ;  hast 
thou,  then,  merged  at  last  thy  peculiar  star  into  the  cluster  of 
all  these  commonplace  girls  whose  lips  have  said  "Ay,"  when 
their  hearts  said  "No"?  Thou,  O  brilliant  Isaura  !  Thou, 
O  poor,  motherless  child  ! 

She  had  sunk  into  her  chair — her  own  favorite  chair  ;  the 
covering  of  it  had  been  embroidered  by  Madame  de  Grantmesnil, 
and  bestowed  on  her  as  a  birthday  present  last  year — the  year  in 
which  she  had  first  learned  what  it  is  to  love  ;  the  year  in  which 
she  had  first  learned  what  it  is  to  strive  for  fame.  And  somehow 
uniting,  as  many  young  people  do,  love  and  fame  in  dreams  of 
the  future,  that  silken  seat  had  been  to  her  as  the  Tripod  of 
Delphi  was  to  the  Pythian  :  she  had  taken  to  it,  as  it  were  in- 
tuitively, in  all  those  hours,  whether  of  joy  or  sorrow,  when 
youth  seeks  to  prophesy,  and  does  but  dream. 

There  she  sate  now,  in  a  sort  of  stupor,  a  sort  of  dreary  be- 
wilderment— the  illusion  of  the  Pythian  gone,  desire  of  dream 
and  of  prophecy  alike  extinct,  pressing  her  hands  together,  and 
muttering  to  herself:  "What  has  happened?  What  have  I 
done  ?" 

Three  hours  later  you  would  not  have  recognized  the  same 
face  that  you  see  now.  For  then  the  bravery,  the  honor,  the 
loyalty  of  the  girl's  nature  had  asserted  their  command.  Her 
promise  had  been  given  to  one  man  ;  it  could  not  be  recalled. 
Thought  itself  of  any  other  man  must  be  banished.  On  her 
hearth  lay  ashes  and  tinder,  the  last  remains  of  every  treasured 
note  from  Graham  Vane  ;  of  the  hoarded  newspaper  extracts 
that  contained  his  name  ;  of  the  dry  treatise  he  had  published, 
and  which  had  made  the  lovely  romance  writer  first  desire  "  to 
know  something  about  politics."  Ay,  if  the  treatise  had  been 
upon  fox-hunting,  she  would  have  desired  "  to  know  something 
about  "  that !  Above  all,  yet  distinguishable  from  the  rest— 
?e  the  sparks  still  upon  stem  and  leaf  here  and  there  faintly 
glowed  and  twinkled — the  withered  flowers  which  recorded 
that  happy  hour  in  the  arbor,  and  the  walks  of  the  forsaken 
garden — the  hour  in  which  she  had  so  blissfully  pledged  her- 
self to  renounce  that  career  in  art  wherein  fame  would  have 
been  secured,  but  which  would  not  have  united  Fame  with 
Love — in  dreams  evermore  over  now. 


THE    PARISIANS.  4H 

BOOK  X. 

CHAPTER  I. 

GRAHAM  VANE  had  heard  nothing  for  months  from  M. 
Renard,  when  one  morning  he  received  the  letter  I  translate  : 

"  MONSIEUR  : 

"I  am  happy  to  inform  you  that  I  have  at  last  obtained  one 
piece  of  information  which  may  lead  to  a  more  important  dis- 
covery. When  we  parted  after  our  fruitless  research  in  Vienna, 
we  had  both  concurred  in  the  persuasion,  that  for  some  reason 
known  only  to  the  two  ladies  themselves,  Madame  Marigny 
and  Madame  Duval  had  exchanged  names  ;  that  it  was  Madame 
Marigny  who  had  deceased  in  the  name  of  Madame  Duval, 
and  Madame  Duval  who  survived  in  that  of  Marigny. 

"  It  was  clear  to  me  that  the  beau  Monsieur  who  had  visited 
the  false  Duval  must  have  been  cognizant  of  this  exchange  of 
name,  and  that  if  his  name  and  whereabouts  cotild  be  ascer- 
tained, he,  in  all  probability,  would  know  what  had  become  of 
the  lady  who  is  the  object  of  our  research  ;  and  after  the  lapse 
of  so  many  years  he  would  probably  have  very  slight  motive  to 
preserve  that  concealment  of  facts  which  might,  no  doubt, 
have  been  convenient  at  the  time.  The  lover  of  the  soi-disant 
Mademoiselle  Duval  was  by  such  accounts  as  we  could  gain  a 
man  of  some  rank — very  possibly  a  married  man  ;  and  the 
liaison^  in  short,  was  one  of  those  which,  while  they  last,  ne- 
cessitate precautions  and  secrecy. 

"  Therefore,  dismissing  all  attempts  at  further  trace  of  the 
missing  lady,  I  resolved  to  return  to  Vienna  as  soon  as  the 
business  that  recalled  me  to  Paris  was  concluded,  and  devote 
myself  exclusively  to  the  search  after  the  amorous  and  mysteri- 
ous Monsieur. 

"  I  did  not  state  this  determination  to  you,  because,  possi- 
bly, I  might  be  in  error;  or,  if  not  in  error,  at  least  too  sanguine 
in  my  expectations  ;  and  it  is  best  to  avoid  disappointing  an 
honorable  client. 

"  One  thing  was  clear,  that,  at  the  time  of  the  soi-disant 
Duval's  decease,  the  beau  Monsieur  was  at  Vienna. 

"  It  appeared  also  tolerably  clear  that  when  the  lady  friend 
of  the  deceased  quitted  Munich  so  privately,  it  was  to  Vienna 


PARISIANS. 


she  repaired,  and  from  Vienna  comes  the  letter  demanding  the 
certificates  of  Madame  Duval's  death.  Pardon  me  if  1  remind 
you  of  all  these  circumstances,  no  doubt  fresh  in  your  recollec- 
tion. .1  repeat  them  in  order  to  justify  the  conclusions  to 
which  they  led  me. 

"  I  could  not,  however,  get  permission  to  absent  myself  from 
Paris  for  the  time  I  might  require  till  the  end  of  last  April.  I 
had  meanwhile  sought  all  private  means  of  ascertaining  what 
Frenchmen  of  rank  and  station  were  in  that  capital  in  the 
autumn  of  1849.  Among  the  list  of  the  very  few  such  Mes- 
sieurs I  fixed  upon  one  as  the  most  likely  to  be  the  mysterious 
Achille  —  Achille  was,  indeed  his  nom  de  bapteme. 

"  A  man  of  intrigue  —  a  bonnes  fortunes  —  of  lavish  expendi- 
ture withal  ;  very  tenacious  of  his  dignity,  and  avoiding  any 
petty  scandals  by  which  it  might  be  lowered  ;  just  the  man 
who,  in  some  passing  affair  of  gallantry  with  a  lady  of  doubtful 
repute,  would  never  have  signed  his  titular  designation  to  a 
letter,  and  would  have  kept  himself  as  much  incognito  as  lie 
could.  But  this  man  was  dead  ;  had  been  dead  some  years. 
He  had  not  died  at  Vienna  ;  never  visited  that  capital  for  some 
years  before  his  death.  He  was  then  and  had  long  been  the 
ami  de  la  mai'son  of  one  of  those  grandes  dames  of  whose  inti- 
macy gra  nds  seigneurs  are  not  ashamed.  They  parade  there 
the  bonnes  fortunes  they  conceal  elsewhere.  Monsieur  and  the 
grande  dame  were  at  Baden  when  the  former  died.  Now, 
Monsieur,  a  Don  Juan  of  that  stamp  is  pretty  sure  always  to 
have  a  confidential  Leporello.  If  I  could  find  Leporello  alive 
I  might  learn  the  secrets  not  to  be  extracted  from  a  Don  Juan 
defunct.  I  ascertained,  in  truth,  both  at  Vienna,  to  which  I 
first  repaired  in  order  to  verify  the  renseigniments  I  had 
obtained  at  Paris,  and  at  Baden,  to  which  I  then  bent  my 
way,  that  this  brilliant  noble  had  a  favorite  valet  who  had 
lived  with  him  from  his  youth  —  an  Italian,  who  had  contrived 
in  the  course  of  his  service  to  lay  by  savings  enough  to  set  up 
a  hotel  somewhere  in  Italy,  supposed  to  be  Pisa.  To  Pisa  I 
repaired,  but  the  man  had  left  some  years  ;  his  hotel  had  not 
prospered  ;  he  had  left  in  debt.  No  one  could  say  what  had 
become  of  him.  At  last,  after  a  long  and  tedious  research,  I 
found  him  installed  as  manager  of  a  small  hotel  at  Genoa  —  a 
pleasant  fellow  enough  ;  and  after  friendly  intercourse  with 
him  (of  course  I  lodged  at  his  hotel),  I  easily  led  him  to  talk 
of  his  earlier  life  and  adventures,  and  especially  of  his  former 
master,  of  whose  splendid  career  in  the  army  of  'La  Belt* 
Dfesse  '  he  was  not  a  little  proud.  It  was  not  very  easy  to  g*  ' 


THE    PARISIANS.  413 

him  to  the  particular  subject  in  question.  In  fact,  the  affair 
with  the  poor  false  Duval  had  been  so  brief  and  undistin- 
guished an  episode  in  his  master's  life,  that  it  was  not  without 
a  strain  of  memory  that  he  reached  it. 

"By  little  and  little,  however,  in  the  course  of  two  or  three 
evenings,  and  by  the  aid  of  many  flasks  of  Orviette  or  bottles 
of  Lacrima  (wines,  Monsieur,  that  I  do  not  commend  to  any 
one  who  desires  to  keep  his  stomach  sound  and  his  secrets 
safe),  I  gathered  these  particulars. 

"  Our  Don  Juan,  since  the  loss  of  a  wife  in  the  first  year  of 
marriage,  had  rarely  visited  Paris,  where  he  had  a  domicile — his 
ancestral  hotel  there  he  had  sold. 

"  But  happening  to  visit  that  capital  of  Europe  a  few  months 
before  we  came  to  our  dates  at  Aix-la-Chapelle,  he  made  ac- 
quaintance with  Madame  Marigny,  a  natural  daughter  of  high- 
placed  parents,  by  whom,  of  course,  she  had  never  been 
acknowledged,  but  who  had  contrived  that  she  should  receive 
a  good  education  at  a  convent ;  and  on  leaving  it  also  con- 
trived that  an  old  soldier  of  fortune — which  means  an  officer 
without  fortune — who  had  served  in  Algiers  with  some  distinc- 
tion, should  offer  her  his  hand,  and  add  the  modest  dot  they 
assigned  her  to  his  yet  more  modest  income.  They  contrived 
also  that  she  should  understand  the  offer  must  be  accepted. 
Thus  Mademoiselle  '  Quclque  Chose '  became  Madame  Marigny, 
and  she,  on  her  part,  contrived  that  a  year  or  so  later  she 
should  be  left  a  widow.  After  a  marriage,  of  course,  the 
parents  washed  their  hands  of  her ;  they  had  done  their  duty. 
At  the  time  Don  Juan  made  this  lady's  acquaintance  nothing 
could  be  said  against  her  character  ;  but  the  milliners  and 
butchers  had  begun  to  imply  that  they  would  rather  have  her 
money  than  trust  to  her  character.  Don  Juan  fell  in  love  with 
her,  satisfied  the  immediate  claims  of  milliner  and  butcher, 
and  when  they  quitted  Paris  it  was  agreed  that  they  should 
meet  later  at  Aix-la-Chapelle.  But  when  he  resorted  to  that 
sultry  and,  to  my  mind,  unalluring  spa,  he  was  surprised  by  a 
line  from  her  saying  that  she  had  changed  her  name  of  Marigny 
for  that  of  Duval. 

"  '  I  recollect,'  said  Leporello,  '  that  two  days  afterwards  my 
master  said  to  me,  "  Caution  and  secrecy.  Don't  mention  my 
name  at  the  house  to  which  I  may  send  you  with  any  note  for 
Madame  Duval.  I  don't  announce  my  name  when  I  call.  La 
petit  Marigny  has  exchanged  her  name  for  that  of  Louise  Duval; 
and  I  find  that  there  is  a  Louise  Duval  here,  her  friend,  who 
is  niece  to  a  relation  of  my  own,  and  a  terrible  relation  to  quar- 


414  THE    PARISIANS. 

rel  with — a  dead  shot  and  unrivalled  swordsman — Victor  de 
Mauleon."  My  master  was  brave  enough,  but  he  enjoyed  life, 
and  he  did  not  think  /^/^VMarigny  worth  being  killed  for.' 

"  Leporello  remembered  very  little  what  followed.  All  he 
did  remember  is  that  Don  Juan,  when  at  Vienna,  said  to  him 
one  morning,  looking  less  gay  than  usual  :  '  It  is  finished  with 
lapetit  Marigny — she  is  no  more.'  Then  he  ordered  his  bath, 
wrote  a  note,  and  said  with  tears  in  his  eyes  :  '  Take  this  to 
Mademoiselle  Celeste  ;  not  to  be  compared  to  la  petit  Marigny  ; 
but  la  petit  Celeste  is  still  alive.'  Ah,  Monsieur,  if  only  any 
man  in  France  could  be  as  proud  of  his  ruler  as  that  Italian 
was  of  my  countryman  !  Alas  !  we  Frenchmen  are  all  made 
to  command — or  at  least  we  think  ourselves  so — and  we  are 
insulted  by  one  who  says  to  us,  '  Serve  and  obey.'  Nowadays, 
in  France  we  find  all  Don  Juans  and  no  Leporellos. 

"  After  strenuous  exertions  upon  my  part  to  recall  to  Lepor- 
ello's  mind  the  important  question  whether  he  had  ever  seen 
the  true  Duval,  passing  under  the  name  of  Marigny  ;  whether 
she  had  not  presented  herself  to  his  master  at  Vienna  or  else- 
where ;  he  rubbed  his  forehead,  and  drew  from  it  these  remi- 
niscences. 

"On  the  day  that  his  Excellency,' — Leporello  generally  so 
styled  his  master  :  "  Excellency,"  as  you  are  aware,  is  the  title 
an  Italian  would  give  to  Satan  if  taking  his  wages, — told  me 
that  la  petit  Marigny  was  no  more,  he  had  received  previously 
a  lady  veiled  and  mantled,  whom  I  did  not  recognize  as  any 
one  I  had  seen  before,  but  I  noticed  her  way  of  carrying  her- 
self— haughtily — her  head  thrown  back  ;  and  I  thought  to  my- 
self, that  lady  is  one  of  his  grandcs  dames.  She  did  call  again 
two  or  three  times,  never  announcing  her  name  ;  then  she  did 
not  reappear.  She  might  be  Madame  Duval — I  can't  say.' 

'  But  did  you  never  hear  his  Excellency  speak  of  the  real 
Duval  after  that  time  ? ' 

1 '  No — non  mi  ricordo — I  don't  remember.' 

"  '  Nor  of  some  living  Madame  Marigny,  though  the  real  one 
was  dead  ? ' 

"  '  Stop,  I  do  recollect ;  not  that  he  ever  named  such  a  per- 
son to  me,  but  that  I  have  posted  letters  for  him  to  a  Madame 
Marigny — oh,  yes  !  even  years  after  the  said  petit  Marigny  was 
dead  ;  and  once  I  did  venture  to  say, "Pardon  me,  Eccellenza, 
but  may  I  ask  if  that  poor  lady  is  really  dead,  since  I  have  to 
prepay  this  letter  to  her  ?" 

"  ' "  Oh,"  said  he,  "  Madame  Marigny  !  Of  course  the  one 
you  know  is  dead,  but  there  are  others  of  the  same  name ; 


THE    PARISIANS.  415 

this  lady  is  of  my  family.  Indeed,  her  house,  though  noble  in 
itself,  recognizes  the  representative  of  mine  as  its  head,  and 
I  am  too  bonprince  not  to  acknowledge  and  serve  any  one  who 
branches  out  of  my  own  tree."  ' 

"  A  day  after  this  last  conversation  on  the  subject,  Leporello 
said  to  me  :  '  My  friend,  you  certainly  have  some  interest  in 
ascertaining  what  became  of  the  lady  who  took  the  name  of 
Marigny.'  (I  state  this  frankly,  Monsieur,  to  show  how  diffi- 
cult even  for  one  so  prudent  as  I  am  to  beat  about  a  bush 
long  but  what  you  let  people  know  the  sort  of  bird  you  are  in 
search  of.) 

'Well,'  said  I,  'she  does  interest  me.  -  I  know  something 
of  that  Victor  de  Mauleon,  whom  his  Excellency  did  not  wish 
to  quarrel  with  ;  and  it  would  be  a  kindly  act  to  her  relation 
if  one  could  learn  what  became  of  Louise  Duval.' 

"'I  can  put  you  on  the  way  of  learning  all  that  his  Ex- 
cellency was  likely  to  have  known  of  her  through  correspon- 
dence. I  have  ofter  heard  him  quote,  with  praise,  a  saying 
so  clever  that  it  might  have  been  Italian.  u  Never  write, 
never  burn  ";  that  is,  never  commit  yourself  by  a  letter  ; 
keep  all  letters  that  could  put  others  in  your  power.  All  the 
letters  he  received  were  carefully  kept  and  labelled.  I  sent 
them  to  his  son  in  four  large  trunks.  His  son,  no  doubt,  has  * 
them  still.' 

"  Now,  however,  I  have  exhausted  my  budget.  I  arrived  at 
Paris  last  night.  I  strongly  advise  you  to  come  hither,  at 
once,  if  you  still  desire  to  prosecute  your  search. 

"You,  Monsieur,  can  do  what  I  could  not  venture  to  do  ; 
you  can  ask  the  son  of  Don  Juan  if,  amid  the  correspondence 
of  his  father,  which  he  may  have  preserved,  there  be  any 
signed  Marigny  or  Duval — any,  in  short,  which  can  throw 
light  on  this  very  obscure  complication  of  circumstances.  A 
grand  seigneur  would  naturally  be  more  complaisant  to  a  man 
of  your  station. than  he  would  be  to  an  agent  of  police.  Don 
Juan's  son,  inheriting  his  father's  title,  is  Monsieur  le  Marquis 
de  Rochebriant ;  and  permit  me  to  add,  that  at  this  moment, 
as  the  journals  doubtless  inform  you,  all  Paris  resounds  with 
the  rumor  of  coming  war  ;  and  Monsieur  de  Rochebriant — 
who  is,  as  1  have  ascertained,  now  in  Paris — it  may  be  difficult 
to  find  anywhere  on  earth  a  month  or  two  hence.  I  have  the 
honor,  with  profound  consideration,  etc.,  etc., 

"  I.  RENARD." 

The  day  after  the  receipt  of  this  letter  Graham  Vane  was  in 
Paris. 


416  THE   PARISIANS. 


CHAPTER  II. 

AMONG  things  indescribable  is  that  which  is  called  "Agitation* 
in  Paris — "  Agitation"  without  riot  or  violence,  showing  itself 
by  no  disorderly  act,  no  turbulent  outburst.  Perhaps  the 
cafes  are  more  crowded  ;  passengers  in  the  streets  stop  each 
other  more  often,  and  converse  in  small  knots  and  groups  ; 
yet,  on  the  whole,  there  is  little  externally  to  show  how  loudly 
the  heart  of  Paris  is  beating.  A  traveller  may  be  passing 
through  quiet  landscapes,  unconscious  that  a  great  battle  is 
going  on  some  miles  off,  but  if  he  will  stop  and  put  his  ear  to 
the  ground  he  will  recognize,  by  a  certain  indescribable  vibra- 
tion, the  voice  of  the  cannon. 

But  at  Paris  an  acute  observer  need  not  stop  and  put  his  ear 
to  the  ground  ;  he  feels  within  himself  a  vibration,  a  mysteri- 
ous inward  sympathy  which  communicates  to  the  individual  a 
conscious  thrill,  when  the  passions  of  the  multitude  are  stirred, 
no  matter  how  silently. 

Tortoni's  cafe  was  thronged  when  Duplessis  and  Frederic 
Lemercier  entered  it :  it  was  in  vain  to  order  breakfast ;  no 
,  table  was  vacant  either  within  the  rooms  or  under  the  awnings 
without. 

But  they  could  not  retreat  so  quickly  as  they  had  entered. 
On  catching  sight  of  the  financier  several  men  rose  and  gath- 
ered round  him,  eagerly  questioning  : 

"  What  do  you  think,  Duplessis?  Will  any  insult  to  France 
put  a  drop  of  warm  blood  into  the  frigid  veins  of  that  misera- 
ble Ollivier?" 

*'  It  is  not  yet  clear  that  France  has  been  insulted,  Messieurs," 
replied  Duplessis  phlegmatically. 

"  Bah  !  Not  insulted  !  The  very  nomination  of  a  Hohen- 
zollern  to  the  crown  of  Spain  was  an  insult — what  would  you 
have  more? " 

"  I  tell  you  what  it  is,  Duplessis,"  said  the  Vicomte  de  Breze, 
whose  habitual  light  good  temper  seemed  exchanged  for  inso- 
lent swagger ;  "  I  tell  you  what  it  is,  your  friend  the  Emperor 
has  no  more  courage  than  a  chicken.  He  is  grown  old,  and 
infirm,  and  lazy ;  he  knows  that  he  can't  even  mount  on  horse- 
back. But  if,  before  this  day  week,  he  has  not  declared  war  on 
the  Prussians,  he  will  be  lucky  if  he  can  get  off  as  quietly  as 
poor  Louis  Philippe  did  under  shelter  of  his  umbrella,  and 
ticketed  'Schmidt.'  Or  could  you  not,  M.  D\iplessis,  send  him 
back  to  London  in  a  bill  of  exchange  ? " 


THE    PARISIANS.  417 

**  For  a  man  of  your  literary  repute,  M.  le  Vlcomte,"  said 
Duplessis,  "  you  indulge  in  a  strange  confusion  of  metaphors. 
But,  pardon  me,  I  came  here  to  breakfast,  and  I  Cannot  re- 
main to  quarrel.  Come,  Lemercier,  let  us  take  our  chance  of 
a  cutlet  at  the  Trois  Freres." 

"  Fox,  Fox,"  cried  Lemercier,  whistling  to  a  poodle  that  had 
followed  him  into  the  cafe\  and,  frightened  by  the  sudden 
movement  and  loud  voices  of  the  habitues,  had  taken  refuge 
under  the  table. 

"Your  dog  is  poltron"  said  De  Breze  ;  "call  him  Nap." 

At  this  stroke  of  humor  there  was  a  general  laugh,  in  the 
midst  of  which  Duplessis  escaped,  and  Frederic,  having  dis- 
covered and  caught  his  dog,  followed  with  that  animal  tenderly 
clasped  in  his  arms.  "I  would  not  lose  Fox  for  a  great  deal," 
said  Lemercier  with  effusion;  "a  pledge  of  love  and  fidelity 
from  an  English  lady  the  most  distinguished  :  the  lady  left 
me,  the  dog  remains." 

Duplessis  smiled  grimly  :  "What  a  thoroughbred  Parisian 
you  are,  my  dear  Frederic  !  I  believe  if  the  trump  of  the  last 
angel  were  sounding,  the  Parisians  would  be  divided  into  two 
sets  :  one  would  be  singing  the  Marseillaise,  and  parading  the 
red  flag  ;  the  other  would  be  shrugging  their  shoulders  and 
saying  :  'Bah  !  as  if  le  Bon  Dieu  would  have  the  bad  taste  to 
injure  Paris,  the  Seat  of  the  Graces,  the  School  of  the  Arts, 
the  Fountain  of  Reason,  and  the  Eye  of  the  World  ' ;  and  so 
be  found  by  the  destroying  angel  caressing  poodles  and  making 
bom  mots  about  If s  femmes. " 

"And  quite  right,  too,"  said  Lemercier  complacently  ;  "what 
other  people  in  the  world  could  retain  lightness  of  heart 
under  circumstances  so  unpleasant  ?  But  why  do  you  take 
things  so  solemnly  ?  Of  course  there  will  be  war  ;  idle  now  to 
talk  of  explanations  and  excuses.  When  a  Frenchman  says,  'I 
am  insulted,'  he  is  not  going  to  be  told  that  he  is  not  insulted. 
He  means  fighting,  and  not  apologizing.  But  what  if  there  be 
war  ?  Our  brave  soldiers  beat  the  Prussians — take  the  Rhine — 
return  to  Paris  covered  with  laurels  ;  a  new  Boulevard  de  Ber- 
lin eclipses  the  Boulevard  Sebastopol.  By  the  way,  Duplessis, 
a  Boulevard  de  Berlin  will  be  a  good  speculation  ;  better  than 
the  Rue  de  Louvier.  Ah  !  is  not  that  my  English  friend, 
Grarm  Varn  ?  "  Here,  quitting  the  arm  of  Duplessis,  Lemer- 
cier stopped  a  gentleman  who  was  about  to  pass  him  unnotic- 
ing.  "  Bon  jour,  man  ami!  How  long  have  you  been  at 
Paris?" 

"  I  only  arrived  last  evening,"  answered  Graham,  "  and  my 


418  THE    PARISIANS. 

stay  may  be  so  short  that  it  is  a  piece  of  good  luck,  my  dear 
Lemercier,  to  meet  with  you,  and  exchange  a  cordial  shake  of 
the  hand." 

"  We  are  just  going  to  breakfast  at  the  Trois  Freres,  Du- 
plessis  and  I— pray  join  us." 

"  With  great  pleasure.  Ah,  M.  Duplessis,  I  shall  be  glad  to 
hear  from  you  that  the  Emperor  will  be  firm  enough  to  check 
the  advances  of  that  martial  fever  which,  to  judge  by  the  per- 
sons I  meet,  seems  to  threaten  delirium." 

Duplessis  looked  very  keenly  at  Graham's  face,  as  he  replied 
slowly  :  "  The  English,  at  least,  ought  to  know  that  when  the 
Emperor  by  his  last  reforms  resigned  his  personal  authority 
for  constitutional  monarchy,  it  ceased  to  be  a  question  whether 
he  could  or  could  not  be  firm  in  matters  that  belonged  to  the 
Cabinet  and  the  Chambers.  I  presume  that  if  Monsieur  Glad- 
stone advised  Queen  Victoria  to  declare  war  upon  the  Emperor 
of  Russia,  backed  by  a  vast  majority  in  Parliament,  you  would 
think  me  very  ignorant  of  constitutional  monarchy  and  Parlia- 
mentary government  if  I  said,  'I  hope  Queen  Victoria  will  re- 
sist that  martial  fever.'  " 

"  You  rebuke  me  very  fairly,  M.  Duplessis,  if  you  can  show 
me  that  the  two  cases  are  analogous  ;  but  we  do  not  understand 
in  England  that,  despite  his  last  reforms,  the  Emperor  lias  so 
abnegated  his  individual  ascendancy,  that  his  will,  clearly  and 
resolutely  expressed,  would  not  prevail  in  his  Council  and 
silence  opposition  in  the  Chambers.  Is  it  so  ?  I  ask  for  in- 
formation." 

The  three  men  were  walking  on  towards  the  Palais  Royal 
side  by  side  while  this  conversation  proceeded. 

"  That  all  depends,"  replied  Duplessis,  "upon  what  may  be 
the  increase  of  popular  excitement  at  Paris.  If  it  slackens,  the 
Emperor,  no  doubt,  could  turn  to  wise  account  that  favorable 
pause  in  the  fever.  But  if  it  continues  to  swell,  and  Paris  cries 
'War,'  in  a  voice  as  loud  as  it  cried  to  Louis  Philippe  'Revo- 
lution,' do  you  think  that  the  Emperor  could  impose  on  his 
ministers  the  wisdom  of  Peace  ?  His  ministers  would  be  too 
terrified  by  the  clamor  to  undertake  the  responsibility  of  op.- 
posing  it — they  would  resign.  Where  is  the  Emperor  to  find 
another  Cabinet  ?  A  peace  Cabinet  ?  What  and  who  are  the 
orators  for  peace?  What  a  handful  !  Who  ?  Gambctta,  Jules 
'Favre.  kvowed  Republicans — would  they  even  accept  the  post 
of  ministers  to  Louis  Napoleon  ?  If  they  did,  would  not  their 
first  step  be  the  abolition  of  the  Empire  ?  Napoleon  is  there- 
fore so  far  a  constitutional  monarch  in  the  same  sense  as  Queen 


THE    PARISIANS.  419 

Victoria,  that  the  popular  will  in  the  country  (and  in  France 
in  such  matters  Paris  is  the  country)  controls  the  Chambers, 
controls  the  Cabinet  ;  and  against  the  Cabinet  the  Emperor 
could  not  contend.  I  say  nothing  of  the  army — a  power  in 
France  unknown  to  you  in  England — which  would  certainly 
fraternize  with  no  peace  party.  If  war  is  proclaimed,  let  En- 
gland blame  it  if  she  will,  she  can't  lament  it  more  than  I  should  : 
but  let  England  blame  the  nation  ;  let  her  blame,  if  she  please, 
the  form  of  the  government,  which  rests  upon  popular  suffrage  ; 
but  do  not  let  her  blame  our  sovereign  more  than  the  French 
would  blame  her  own,  if  compelled  by  the  conditions  on  which 
she  holds  her  croAvn  to  sign  a  declaration  of  war,  which  vast 
majorities  in  a  Parliament  just  elected,  and  a  Council  of  Min- 
isters whom  she  could  not  practically  replace,  enforced  upon 
her  will." 

"  Your  observations,  M.  Duplessis,  impress  me  strongly,  and 
add  to  the  deep  anxieties  with  which,  in  common  with  all  my 
countrymen,  I  regard  the  menacing  aspect  of  the  present  hour. 
Let  us  hope  the  best.  Our  government,  I  know,  is  exerting 
itself  to  the  utmost  verge  of  its  power  to  remove  every  just 
ground  of  offence  that  the  unfortunate  nomination  of  a  Ger- 
man prince  to  the  Spanish  throne  could  not  fail  to  have  given 
to  French  statesmen." 

"  I  am  glad  you  concede  that  such  a  nomination  was  a  just 
ground  of  offence,"  said  Leinercier,  rather  bitterly  ;  "  for  I 
have  met  Englishmen  who  asserted  that  France  had  no  right 
to  resent  any  choice  of  a  sovereign  that  Spain  might  make." 

"  Englishmen  in  general  are  not  very  reflective  politicians  in 
foreign  affairs,"  said  Graham  ;  "  but  those  who  are  must  see 
that  France  could  not,  without  alarm  the  most  justifiable,  con- 
template a  cordon  of  hostile  States  being  drawn  around  her 
on  all  sides — Germany,  in  itself  so  formidable  since  the  field 
of  Sadowa,  on  the  east  ;  a  German  prince  in  the  southwest  ; 
the  not  improbable  alliance  between  Prussia  and  the  Italian 
kingdom,  already  so  alienated  from  the  France  to  which  it 
owed  so  mi\ch.  If  England  would  be  uneasy  were  a  great 
maritime  power  possessed  of  Antwerp,  how  much  more  uneasy 
might  France  justly  be  if  Prussia  could  add  the  armies  of  Spain 
to  those  of  Germany,  and  launch  them  both  upon  France.  But 
that  cause  of  alarm  is  over,  the  Hohenzollern  is  withdrawn. 
Let  us  hope  for  the  best." 

The  three  men  had  now  seated  themselves  at  a  table  in  the 
Trois  Freres,  and  Lemercier  volunteered  the  task  of  inspecting 
the  menu  and  ordering  the  repast,  still  keeping  &uard  on  Fox. 


420  THE    PARISIANS. 

"  Observe  that  man,"  said  Duplessis,  pointing  towards  a 
gentleman  who  had  just  entered  ;  "  the  other  day  he  was  the 
popular  hero  ;  now  in  the  excitement  of  threatened  war,  he  is 
permitted  to  order  his  bifteck  uncongratulated,  uncaressed  ; 
such  is  fame  at  Paris  !  here  to-day  and  gone  to-morrow." 

"  How  did  the  man  become  famous?  " 

"  He  is  a  painter,  and  refused  a  decoration — the  only  French 
painter  who  ever  did." 

"And  why  refuse  ?  " 

"Because  he  is  more  stared  at  as  the  man  who  refused  than 
he  would  have  been  as  the  man  who  accepted.  If  ever  the 
Red  Republicans  have  their  day,  those  among  them  most  cer- 
tain of  human  condemnation  will  be  the  coxcombs  who  have 
gone  mad  from  the  desire  of  human  applause." 

"  You  ace  a  profound  philosopher,  M.  Duplessis." 

"  I  hope  not  ;  I  have  an  especial  contempt  for  philosophers. 
Pardon  me  a  moment,  I  see  a  man  to  whom  I  would  say  a 
word  or  two." 

Duplessis  crossed  over  to  another  table  to  speak  to  a  middle- 
aged  man  of  somewhat  remarkable  countenance,  with  the  red 
ribbon  in  his  button-hole,  in  whom  Graham  recognized  an  ex- 
Minister  of  the  Emperor,  differing  from  most  of  those  at  that 
day  in  his  Cabinet,  in  the  reputation  of  being  loyal  to  his 
master  and  courageous  against  a  mob. 

Left  thus  alone  with  Lemercier,  Graham  said  : 

"  Pray  tell  me  where  I  can  find  your  friend  the  Marquis  de 
Rochebriant.  I  called  at  his  apartment  this  morning,  and  I 
was  told  that  he  had  gone  on  some  visit  into  the  country,  tak- 
ing his  valet,  and  the  concierge  could  not  give  me  his  address. 
I  thought  myself  so  lucky  on  meeting  with  you  who  are  sure 
to  know." 

"  No,  I  do  not ;  it  is  some  days  since  I  saw  Alain.  But 
Duplessis  will  be  sure  to  know."  Here  the  financier  rejoined 
them. 

"  Man  cher,  Grarm  Varn  wants  to  know  for  what  Sabine 
shades  Rochebriant  has  deserted  the  'fumum  opes  .strcpitumque ' 
of  the  capital." 

"Ah  !  the  Marquis  is  a  friend  of  yours,  Monsieur  ?  " 

"  I  can  scarcely  boast  that  honor,  but  he  is  an  acquaintance 
whom  I  should  be  very  glad  to  see  again." 

"  At  this  moment  he  is  at  the  Duchesse  de  Tarascon's  coun- 
try-house near  Fontainebleau  ;  I  had  a  hurried  line  from  him 
two  days  ago  stating  that  he  was  going  there  on  her  urgent 
invitation.  But  he  may  return  to-morrow  ;  at  all  events  he 


THE  PARISIANS.  421 

dines  with  md  Oil  the  8th,  and  I  shall  be  charmed  if  you  will  do 
me  the  honor  to  meet  him  at  my  house." 

"It  is  an  invitation  too  agreeable  to  refuse,  and  I  thank  you 
very  much  for  it." 

Nothing  worth  recording  passed  further  in  conversation  be- 
tween Graham  and  the  two  Frenchmen.  Hs  left  them  smoking 
their  cigars  in  the  garden,  and  walked  homeward  by  the  Rue  de 
Rivoli.  As  he  was  passing  beside  the  Magasin  du  Louvre  he 
stopped,  and  made  way  for  a  lady  crossing  quickly  out  of  the 
shop  towards  her  carriage  at  the  door.  Glancing  at  Jiim  with 
a  slight  inclination  of  her  head  in  acknowledgment  of  his  cour- 
tesy, the  lady  recognized  his  features  : 

"Ah,  Mr.  Vane  !  "  she  cried,  almost  joyfully,  "you  are  then 
at  Paris,  though  you  have  not  come  to  see  me." 

"I  only  arrived  last  night,  dear  Mrs.  Morley,"  said  Graham, 
rather  embarrassed,  "and  only  on  some  matters  of  business 
which  unexpectedly  summoned  me.  My  stay  will  probably  be 
very  short." 

"In  that  case  let  me  rob  you  of  a  few  minutes — no,  not  rob 
you  even  of  them  ;  I  can  take  you  wherever  you  want  to  go, 
and  as  my  carriage  moves  more  quickly  than  you  do  on  foot, 
I  shall  save  you  the  minutes  instead  of  robbing  you  of  them." 

"  You  are  most  kind,  but  I  was  only  going  to  my  hotel,  which 
is  close  by." 

"  Then  you  have  no  excuse  for  not  taking  a  short  drive  with 
me  in  the  Champs  Elyse"es — come." 

Thus  bidden,  Graham  could  not  civilly  disobey.  He  handed 
the  fair  American  into  her  carriage,  and  seated  himself  by 
her  side. 

CHAPTER  III. 

"  MR.  VANE,  I  feel  as  if  I  had  many  apologies  to  make  for 
the  interest  in  your  life  which  my  letter  to  you  so  indiscreetly 
betrayed." 

"  Oh,  Mrs.  Morley,  you  cannot  guess  how  deeply  that  inter- 
est touched  me." 

"  I  should  not  have  presumed  so  far,"  continued  Mrs. 
Morley,  unheeding  the  interruption,  "  if  I  had  not  been  alto- 
gether in  error  as  to  the  nature  of  your  sentiments  in  a. 
certain  quarter.  In  this  you  must  blame  my  American  rearing. 
With  us  there  are  many  flirtations  between  boys  and  girl? 
which  come  to  nothing  ;  but  when  in  my  country  a  man  like 
you  meets  with  a  woman  like  Mademoiselle  Cicogna,  there 


421  THE    PARISIANS. 

cannot  be  flirtation.  His  attentions,  his  looks,  his  manner, 
reveal  to  the  eyes  of  those  who  care  enough  for  him  to  watch, 
one  of  two  things  :  either  he  coldly  admires  and  esteems,  or  he 
loves  with  his  whole  heart  and  soul  a  woman  worthy  to  inspire 
such  a  love.  Well,  I  did  watch,  and  I  was  absurdly  mistaken. 
I  imagined  that  I  saw  love,  and  rejoiced  for  the  sake  of  both 
of  you  to  think  so.  I  know  that  in  all  countries,  our  own  as 
well  as  yours,  love  is  so  morbidly  sensitive  and  jealous  that  it 
is  always  apt  to  invent  imaginary  foes  to  itself.  Esteem  and 
admiration  never  do  that.  I  thought  that  some  misunder- 
standing, easily  removed  by  the  intervention  of  a  third  person, 
might  have  impeded  the  impulse  of  two  hearts  towards  each 
other — and  so  I  wrote.  I  had  assumed  that  you  loved — I  am 
humbled  to  the  last  degree — you  only  admired  and  esteemed." 

"  Your  irony  is  very  keen,  Mrs.  Morley,  and  to  you  it  may 
seem  very  just." 

"  Don't  call  me  Mrs.  Morley  in  that  haughty  tone  of  voice — 
can't  you  talk  to  me  as  you  would  talk  to  a  friend  ?  You  only 
esteemed  and  admired — there  is  an  end  of  it." 

"  No,  there  is  not  an  end  of  it,"  cried  Graham,  giving  way 
to  an  impetuosity  of  passion  which  rarely,  indeed,  before 
another,  escaped  his  self-control  ;  "  the  end  of  it  to  me  is  a  life 
out  of  which  is  ever  stricken  such  love  as  I  could  feel  for 
woman.  To  me  true  love  can  only  come  once.  It  came  with 
my  first  look  on  that  fatal  face  ;  it  has  never  left  me  in  thought 
by  day,  in  dreams  by  night.  The  end  of  it  to  me  is  farewell 
to  all  such  happiness  as  the  one  love  of  a  life  can  promise — 
but — " 

"But  what?"  asked  Mrs.  Morley  softly,  and  very  much  moved 
by  the  passionate  earnestness  of  Graham's  voice  and  words. 

"  But,"  he  continued  with  a  forced  smile,  "  we  Englishmen 
are  trained  to  the  resistance  of  absolute  authority  ;  we  cannot 
submit  all  the  elements  that  make  up  our  being  to  the  sway  of 
a  single  despot.  Love  is  the  painter  of  existence,  it  should 
not  be  its  sculptor." 

"  I  do  not  understand  the  metaphor." 

"  Love  colors  our  life,  it  should  not  chisel  its  form." 

"  My  dear  Mr.  Vane,  that  is  very  cleverly  said,  but  the 
human  heart  is  too  large  and  too  restless  to  be  quietly  packed 
up  in  an  aphorism.  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  if  you  found 
you  had  destroyed  Isaura  Cicogna's  happiness  as  well  as  re- 
signed your  own,  that  thought  would  not  somewhat  deform 
the  very  shape  you  would  give  to  your  life  ?  Is  it  color  alon* 
th«t  your  life  would  lose  ?  " 


THE    PARISIANS.  423 

"Ah,  Mrs.  Morley,  do  not  lower  your  friend  into  an  ordinary 
girl  in  whom  idleness  exaggerates  the  strength  of  any  fancy 
over  which  it  dreamily  broods.  Isaura  Cicogna  has  her  occu- 
pations, her  genius,  her  fame,  her  career.  Honestly  speaking, 
I  think  that  in  these  she  will  find  a  happiness  that  no  quiet 
hearth  could  bestow.  I  will  say  no  more.  I  feel  persuaded 
that  were  we  two  united  I  could  not  make  her  happy.  With 
the  irresistible  impulse  that  urges  the  genius  of  the  writer 
towards  its  vent  in  public  sympathy  and  applause,  she  would 
chafe  if  I  said,  'Be  contented  to  be  wholly  mine.'  And  if  I 
said  it  not,  and  felt  I  had  no  right  to  say  it,  and  allowed  the 
full  scope  to  her  natural  ambition,  what  then  ?  She  would 
chafe  yet  more  to  find  that  I  had  no  fellowship  in  her  aims  and 
ends  ;  that  where  I  should  feel  pride,  I  felt  humiliation.  It 
would  be  so  ;  I  cannot  help  it,  'tis  my  nature." 

"So  be  it  then.  When  next  year  perhaps,  you  visit  Paris, 
you  will  be  safe  from  my  officious  interference — Isaura  will  be 
the  wife  of  another." 

Graham  pressed  his  hand  to  his  heart  with  the  sudden  move- 
ment of  one  who  feels  there  an  agonizing  spasm  ;  his  cheek, 
his  very  lips,  were  bloodless. 

"  I  told  you,"  he  said  bitterly,  "  that  your  fears  of  my  influ- 
ence over  the  happiness  of  one  so  gifted,  and  so  strong  in  such 
gifts,  were  groundless  ;  you  allow  that  I  should  be  very  soon 
forgotten  ?  " 

V  I  allow  no  such  thing  ;  I  wish  I  could.  But  do  you  know- 
so  little  of  a  woman's  heart  (and  in  matters  of  heart  I  never  yet 
heard  that  genius  had  a  talisman  against  emotion), — do  you 
know  so  little  of  a  woman's  heart  as  not  to  know  that  the  very 
moment  in  which  she  may  accept  a  marriage  the  least  fitted  to 
render  her  happy,  is  that  in  which  she  has  lost  all  hope  of  hap- 
piness in  another?" 

"  Is  it  indeed  so  ? "  murmured  Graham  ;  "Ay,  I  can  con- 
ceive it." 

"  And  have  you  so  little  comprehension  of  the  necessities 
which  that  fame,  that  career  to  which  you  allow  she  is  impelled 
by  the  instincts  of  genius,  impose  on  this  girl,  young,  beautiful, 
fatherless,  motherless  ?  No  matter  how  pure  her  life,  can  she 
guard  it  from  the  slander  of  envious  tongues  ?  Will  not  all 
her  truest  friends — would  not  you,  if  you  were  her  brother — 
press  upon  her  by  all  the  arguments  that  have  most  weight 
with  the  woman  who  asserts  independence  in  her  modes  of  life, 
and  yet  is  wise  enough  to  know  that  the  world  can  only  judge 
of  virtue  by  its  shadow — reputation,  not  to  dispense  with  the 


424  THE  PARISIANS. 

protection  which  a  husband  can  alone  secure  ?  And  that  is 
why  I  warn  you,  if  it  be  yet  time,  that  in  resigning  your  own 
happiness  you  may  destroy  Isaura's.  She  will  wed  another, 
but  she  will  not  be  happy.  What  a  chimera  of  dread  your  ego- 
tism a  man  conjures  up.  Oh,  forsooth,  the  qualities  that  charm 
and  delight  a  world  are  to  unfit  a  woman  to  be  helpmate  to  a 
man.  Fie  on  you  ! — fie  !  " 

Whatever  answer  Graham  might  have  made  to  these  impas- 
sioned reproaches  was  here  checked. 

Two  men  on  horseback  stopped  the  carriage.  One  was  En- 
guerrand  de  Vandemar,  the  other  was  the  Algerine  Colonel 
whom  we  met  at  the  supper  given  at  the  Maison  Doree  by 
Frederic  Lemercier. 

"  Pardon,  Madame  Morley,"  said  Enguerrand  ;  "  but  there 
are  symptoms  of  a  mob-epidemic  a  little  further  up  ;  the  fever 
began  at  Belleville,  and  is  threatening  the  health  of  the  Champs 
Elysees.  Don't  be  alarmed  ;  it  may  be  nothing,  though  it  may 
be  much.  In  Paris  one  can  never  calculate  an  hour  before- 
hand the  exact  progress  of  a  politico-epidemic  fever.  At  pres- 
ent I  say:  '  Bah  !  a  pack  of  ragged  boys,  gamins  de  Paris';  but 
rny  friend  the  Colonel,  twisting  his  moustache  tn  souriant  amcre- 
ment,  says  :  '  It  is  the  indignation  of  Paris  at  the  apathy  of  the 
government  under  insult  to  the  honor  of  France  ';  and  Heaven 
only  knows  how  rapidly  French  gamins  grow  into  giants  when 
colonels  talk  about  the  indignation  of  Paris  and  the  honor  of 
France  !" 

"  But  what  has  happened?"  asked  Mrs.  Morley,  turning  to 
the  Colonel. 

"Madame,"  replied  the  warrior,  "it  is  rumored  that  the 
King  of  Prussia  has  turned  "his  back  upon  the  ambassador  of 
France  ;  and  that  the pekin  who  is  for  peace  at  any  price,  M. 
Ollivier,  will  say  to-morrow  in  the  Chamber,  that  France  sub- 
mits to  a  slap  in  the  face." 

"  Please,  Monsieur  de  Vandemar,  to  tell  my  coachman  to 
drive  home,"  said  Mrs.  Morley. 

"  The  carriage  turned  and  went  homeward.  The  Colonel 
lifted  his  hat  and  rode  back  to  see  what  \\\<t  gamins  were  about. 
Enguerrand,  who  had  no  interest  in  the  gamins,  and  who 
looked  on  the  Colonel  as  a  bore,  rode  by  the  side  of  the 
carriage. 

"Is  there  anything  serious  in  this?"  asked  Mrs.  Morley. 

"At  this  moment,  nothing.  What  it  may  be  this  hour  to- 
morrow I  cantiot  say.  Ah,  Monsieur  Vane,  ban  jour — I  did 
not  recognize  you  at  first.  Once  in  a  visit  at  the  chdteau  of 


THE    PARISIANS.  425 

one  of  your  distinguished  countrymen,  I  saw  two  game-cocks 
turned  out  facing  each  other:  they  needed  no  pretext  for 
quarrelling — neither  do  France  and  Prussia — no  matter  which 
game-cock  gave  the  first  offence,  the  two  game  cocks  must 
have  it  out.  All  that  Ollivier  can  do,  if  he  be  wise,  is  to  see 
that  the  French  cock  has  his  steel  spurs  as  long  as  the  Prus- 
sians. But  this  I  do  say,  that  if  Ollivier  attempts  to  put  the 
French  cock  back  into  its  bag,  the  Empire  is  gone  in  forty-eight 
hours.  That  to  me  is  a  trifle  :  I  care  nothing  for  the  Empire  ; 
but  that  which  is  not  a  trifle  is  anarchy  and  chaos.  Better 
war  and  the  Empire  than  peace  and  Jules  Favre.  But  let  us 
seize  the  present  hour,  Mr.  Vane  ;  whatever  happens  to-mor- 
row, shall  we  dine  together  to-day  ?  Name  your  restaurant." 

"I  am  so  grieved,"  answered  Graham,  rousing  himself;  "I 
am  here  only  on  business,  and  engaged  all  the  evening." 

"  What  a  wonderful  thing  is  this  life  of  ours  !  "  said  Enguer- 
rand.  "The  destiny  of  France  at 'this  moment  hangs  on  a 
thread  ;  I,  a  Frenchman,  say  to  an  English  friend  :  '  Let  us 
dine — a  cutlet  to-day  and  a  fig  for  to-morrow  ';  and  my  En- 
glish friend,  distinguished  native  of  a  country  with  which  we 
have  the  closest  alliance,  tells  me  that  in  this  crisis  of  France 
lie  has  business  to  attend  to  !  My  father  is  quite  right  ;  he 
accepts  the  Voltairean  philosophy,  and  cries,  Vivent  les  indif- 
fe  rents  !  " 

"  My  dear  M.  de  Vandemar,"  said  Graham,  "  in  every  coun- 
try you  will  find  the  same  thing.  All  individuals  massed  together 
constitute  public  life.  Each  individual  has  a  life  of  his  own, 
the  claims  and  the  habits  and  the  needs  of  which  do  not  sup- 
press his  sympathies  with  public  life,  but  imperiously  overrule 
them.  Mrs.  Morley,  permit  me  to  pull  the  check-string — I  get 
out  here." 

"  I  like  that  man,"  said  Enguerrand,  as  he  continued  to 
ride  by  the  fair  American,  "  in  language  and  esprit  he  is  so 
French." 

"  I  used  to  like  him  belter  than  you  can,"  answered  Mrs. 
Morley,  "  but  in  prejudice  and  stupidity  he  is  so  English.  As 
it  seems  you  are  disengaged,  come  and  partake,  pot  au  feu, 
with  Frank  and  me." 

"  Charmed  to  do  so,"  answered  the  cleverest  and  best  bred 
of  all  Parisian  beaux  garfons,  "  but  forgive  me  if  I  quit  you 
soon.  This  poor  France !  Entre  nous,  I  am  very  uneasy 
about  the  Parisian  fever.  I  must  run  away  after  dinner  to 
clubs  and  cafes  to  learn  the  latest  bulletins." 

"  We  have  nothing  like  that  French  Legitimist  in  the  States/' 


426  THE    PARISIANS. 

said  the  fair  American  to  her  herself,  "  unless  we  should  ever 
be  so  silly  as  to  make  Legitimists  of  the  ruined  gentlemen  of 
the  South." 

Meanwhile  Graham  Vane  went  slowly  back  to  his  apartment. 
No  false  excuse  had  he  made  to  Enguerrand  ;  this  evening  was 
devoted  to  M.  Renard;  who  told  him  little  he  had  not  known 
before  ;  but  his  private  life  overruled  his  public,  and  all  that 
night,  he,  professed  politician,  thought  sleeplessly,  not  over  the 
crisis  to  France,  which  might  alter  the  conditions  of  Europe, 
but  the  talk  on  his  private  life  of  that  intermeddling  American 
woman. 

CHAPTER  IV. 

THE  next  day,  Wednesday,  July  6th,  commenced  one  of  those 
eras  in  the  world's  history  in  which  private  life  would  vainly 
boast  that  it  overrules  Life  Public.  How  many  private  lives 
does  such  a  terrible  time  influence,  absorb,  darken  with  sorrow, 
crush  into  graves  ? 

It  was  the  day  when  the  Due  de  Gramont  uttered  the  fatal 
speech  which  determined  the  die  between  peace  and  war.  No 
one  not  at  Paris  on  that  day  can  conceive  the  popular  enthusiasm 
with  which  that  speech  was  hailed — the  greater  because  the 
warlike  tone  of  it  was  not  anticipated  ;  because  there  had  been  a 
rumor  amidst  circles  the  best  informed  that  a  speech  of  pacific 
moderation  was  to  be  the  result  of  the  Imperial  Council.  Rap- 
turous indeed  were  the  applauses  with  which  the  sentences  that 
breathed  haughty  defiance  were  hailed  by  the  Assembly.  The 
ladies  in  the  tribune  rose  with  one  accord,  waving  their  hand- 
kerchiefs. Tall,  stalwart,  dark,  with  Roman  features  and  lofty 
presence,  the  Minister  of  France  seemed  to  say  with  Catiline 
in  the  fine  tragedy  :  "  Lo  !  where  I  stand,  I  am  war  !  " 

Paris  had  been  hungering  for  some  hero  of  the  hour  ;  the 
Due  de  Gramont  became  at  once  raised  to  that  eminence. 

All  the  journals,  save  the  very  few  which  were  friendly  to 
peace,  because  hostile  to  the  Emperor,  resounded  with  praise, 
not  only  of  the  speech,  but  of  the  speaker.  It  is  with  a  melan- 
choly sense  of  amusement  that  one  recalls  now  to  mind  those 
organs  of  public  opinion  ;  with  what  romantic  fondness  they 
dwelt  on  the  personal  graces  of  the  man  who  had  at  last  given 
voice  to  the  chivalry  of  France  :  "  The  charming  gravity  of 
his  countenance,  the  mysterious  expression  of  his  eye  !  " 

As  the  crowd  poured  from  the  Chambers,  Victor  de  Maul^on 
and  Savarin,  who  had  been  among  the  listeners,  encountered.. 


THE    PARISIANS.  427 

"  No  chance  for  my  friends  the  Orleanists  now,"  said  Savarin. 
'*  You  who  mock  at  all  parties  are,  I  suppose,  at  heart  for  the 
Republican — small  chance,  too,  for  that." 

"  I  do  not  agree  with  you.  Violent  impulses  have  xjuick 
reactions." 

"  But  what  reaction  could  shake  the  Emperor  after  he  re- 
turns a  conqueror,  bringing  in  his  pocket  the  left  bank  of  the 
Rhine  ? " 

"  None — when  he  does  that.  Will  he  do  it  ?  Does  he  him- 
self think  he  will  do  it  ?  I  doubj; — " 

"  Doubt  the  French  army  against  the  Prussian  ?  " 

"Against  the  German  people  united — yes,  very  much." 

"  But  war  will  disunite  the  German  people.  Bavaria  will 
surely  assist  us  ;  Hanover  will  rise  against  the  spoliator  ;  Aus- 
tria at  our  first  successes  must  shake  off  her  present  enforced 
neutrality." 

"  You  have  not  been  in  Germany,  and  I  have.  What  yester- 
day was  a  Prussian  army,  to-morrow  will  be  a  German  popula- 
tion ;  far  exceeding  our  own  in  numbers,  in  hardihood  of  body, 
in  cultivated  intellect,  in  military  discipline.  But  talk  of  some- 
thing else.  How  is  my  ex-editor,  poor  Gustave  Rameau  ?  " 

"  Still  very  weak,but  on  the  mend.  You  may  have  him  back 
in  his  office  soon." 

"  Impossible !  Even  in  his  sick-bed  his  vanity  was  more 
vigorous  than  ever.  He  issued  a  war-song,  which  has  gone  the 
round  of  the  war  journals  signed  by  his  own  name.  He  must 
have  known  very  well  that  the  name  of  such  a  Tyrtgeus  cannot 
reappear  as  the  editor  of  Le  Sens  Commun  ;  that  in  launching 
his  little  firebrand  he  burned  all  the  vessels  that  could  waft 
him  back  to  the  port  he  had  quitted.  But  I  dare  say  he  has 
done  well  for  his  own  interests ;  I  doubt  if  Le  Sens  Commun 
can  much  longer  hold  its  ground  in  the  midst  of  the  prevalent 
lunacy." 

"What !  It  has  lost  subscribers? — gone  off  in  sale  already, 
since  it  declared  for  peace  ?" 

"Of  course  it  has  ;  and  after  the  article,  which,  if  I  live  over 
to-night,  will  appear  to-morrow,  I  should  wonder  if  it  sell 
enough  to  cover  the  cost  of  the  print  and  paper." 

"  Martyr  to  principle  !     I  revere,  but  I  do  not  envy  thee." 

"  Martyrdom  is  not  my  ambition.  If  Louis  Napoleon  be 
defeated,  what  then  ?  Perhaps  he  may  be  the  martyr  ;  and  the 
Favres  and  Gambettas  may  roast  their  own  eggs  on  the  grid- 
iron they  heat  for  his  majesty." 

Here  an  English  gentleman,  who  was  the  very  able  corre- 


428  THE    PARISIANS. 

spondent  to  a  very  eminent  journal,  and  in  that  capacity  had 
made  acquaintance  with  De  Mauleon,  joined  the  two  French- 
men ;  Savarin,  however,  after  an  exchange  of  salutations,  went 
his  way. 

"May  I  ask  a  frank  answer  to  a  somewhat  rude  question,  M. 
le  Vicomte  ?"  said  the  Englishman.  "  Suppose  that  the  Impe- 
rial Government  had  to-day  given  in  their  adhesion  to  the 
peace  party,  how  long  would  it  have  been  before  their  orators 
in  the  Chamber  and  their  organs  in  the  press  would  have  said 
that  France  was  governed  by  poltrons ?  " 

"  Probably  for  most  of  the  twenty-four  hours.  But  there  are 
a  few  who  are  honest  in  their  convictions  ;  of  that  few,  I  am 
one." 

"  And  would  have  supported  the  Emperor  and  his  govern- 
ment ?" 

"No,  Monsieur,  I  do  not  say  that." 

"  Then  the  Emperor  would  have  turned  many  friends  into 
enemies,  and  no  enemies  into  friends." 

"  Monsieur,  you  in  England  know  that  a  party  in  opposition 
is  not  propitiated  when  the  party  in  power  steals  its  measures. 
Ka ! — pardon  me,  who  is  that  gentleman,  evidently  your 
countryman,  whom  I  see  yonder  talking  to  the  Secretary  of 
your  Embassy  ?  " 

"  He — Mr.  Vane — Graham  Vane.  Do  you  not  know  him  ? 
He  has  been  much  in  Paris,  attached  to  our  Embassy  formerly  ; 
a  clever  man — much  is  expected  from  him." 

"  Ah  !  I  think  I  have  seen  him  before,  but  am  not  quite  sure. 
Did  you  say  Vane  ?  I  once  knew  a  Monsieur  Vane,  a  distin- 
guished parliamentary  orator." 

"  That  gentleman  is  his  son  ;  would  you  like  to  be  introduced 
to  him  ?  " 

"  Not  to-day,  I  am  in  some  hurry."  Here  Victor  lifted  his 
hat  in  parting  salutation,  and  as  he  walked  away  cast  at  Gra- 
ham another  glance  keen  and  scrutinizing.  "  I  have  seen  that 
man  before,"  he  muttered,  "  Where  ?  When  ?  Can  it  be  only 
a  family  likeness  to  the  father  ?  No,  the  features  are  different ; 
the  profile  is — ha! — Mr.  Lamb.  Mr.  Lamb — but  why  call  him- 
self by  that  name?  Why  disguised  ?  What  can  he  have  to  do 
with  poor  Louise  ?  Bah — these  are  not  questions  I  can  think 
of  now.  This  war — this  war — can  it  yet  be  prevented  ?  How 
it  will  prostrate  all  the  plans  my  ambition  so  carefully  schemed  ! 
Oh'!  at  least  if  I  were  but  in  the  Chambre.  Perhaps  I  yet  may 
be  before  the  war  is  ended — the,  Clavignys  have  great  interest 
in  their  department." 


THE   PARISIANS.  429 


CHAPTER  V. 

GRAHAM  had  left  a  note  with  Rochebrianl's  concierge  request- 
ing an  interview  on  the  Marquis's  return  to  Paris,  and  on  the 
evening  after  the  day  just  commemorated  he  received  a  line, 
saying  that  Alain  had  come  back,  and  would  be  at  home  at 
nine  o'clock.  Graham  found  himself  in  the  Breton's  apart- 
ment punctually  at  the  hour  indicated. 

Alain  was  in  high  spirits :  he  burst  at  once  into  enthusiastic 
exclamations  on  the  virtual  announcement  of  war. 

"  Congratulate  me,  man  cher  >  "  he  cried  ;  "  the  news  was  a 
joyous  surprise  to  me.  Only  so  recently  as  yesterday  morning 
I  was  under  the  gloomy  apprehension  that  the  Imperial  Cabinet 
would  continue  to  back  Ollivier's  craven  declaration  '  that 
France  had  not  been  affronted'  !  The  Duchesse  de  Tarascon, 
at  whose  campagne  I  was  a  guest,  is  (as  you  doubtless  know) 
very  much  in  the  confidence  of  the  Tuileries.  On  the  first 
signsof  war,  I  wrote  to  her  saying  that,  whatever  the  objections 
of  my  pride  to  enter  the  army  as  a  private  in  time  of  peace, 
such  objections  ceased  on  the  moment  when  all  distinctions  of 
France  must  vanish  in  the  eyes  of  sons  eager  to  defend  her 
banners.  The  Duchesse  in  reply  begged  me  to  come  to  her 
campagne  and  talk  over  the  matter.  1  went ;  she  then  said 
that  if  war  should  break  out  it  was  the  intention  to  organize 
the  Mobiles  and  officer  them  with  men  of  birth  and  education, 
irrespective  of  previous  military  service,  and  in  that  case  I 
might  count  on  my  epaulets.  But  only  two  nights  ago  she 
received  a  letter — I  know  not  of  course  from  whom — evidently 
from  some  high  authority,  that  induced  her  to  think  the  modera- 
tion of  the  Council  would  avert  the  war,  and  leave  the  swords 
of  the  Mobiles  in  their  sheaths.  I  suspect  the  decision  of 
yesterday  must  have  been  a  very  sudden  one.  Ce  cher  Gra- 
mont!  See  what  it  is  to  have  a  well-born  man  in  a  sovereign's 
councils." 

"If  war  must  come,  I  at  least  wish  all  renown  to  yourself. 
But—" 

"Oh  !  spare  me  your  '  buts* ;  the  English  are  always  too  full 
of  them  where  their  own  interests  do  not  appeal  to  them. 
They  had  no  '  buts '  for  war  in  India  or  a  march  into  Abyssinia." 

Alain  spoke  petulantly  ;  at  that  moment  the  French  were 
very  much  irritated  by  the  monitory  tone  of  the  English  jour- 
nals. Graham  prudently  avoided  the  chance  of  rousing  the 
wrath  of  a  young  hero  yearning  for"  his  epaulets. 


THE   PARISIANS. 

"  I  am  English  enough,"  said  he,  with  good-humored  cour- 
tesy, "to  care  for  English  interests;  and  England  has  no 
interest  abroad  dearer  to  her  than  the  welfare  and  dignity  of 
France.  And  now  let  me  tell  you  why  I  presumed  on  an  ac- 
quaintance less  intimate  than  I  could  -desire,  to  solicit  this 
interview  on  a  matter  which  concerns  myself,  and  in  which 
you  could  perhaps  render  me  a  considerable  service." 

"  If  1  can,  count  it  rendered  ;  move  to  this  sofa,  join  me  in  a 
cigar,  and  let  us  talk  at  ease  comme  de  vieux  amis,  whose 
fathers  or  brothers  might  have  fought  side  by  side  in  the 
Crimea."  Graham  removed  to  the  sofa  beside  Rochebri- 
ant,  and  after  one  or  two  whiffs  laid. aside  the  cigar  and 
began  : 

''  Among  the  correspondence  which  Monsieur  your  father 
has  left,  are  there  any  letters  of  no  distant  date  signed  Ma- 
rigny — Madame  Marigny  ?  Pardon  me,  I  should  state  my 
motive  in  putting  this  question.  I  am  intrusted  with  a  charge, 
the  fulfilment  of  which  may  prove  to  the  benefit  of  this  lady 
or  her  child  ;  such  fulfilment  is  a  task  imposed  upon  my  honor. 
But  all  the  researches  to  discover  this  lady  which  1  have  insti- 
tuted stop  at  a  certain  date,  with  this  information,  viz.,  that  she 
corresponded  occasionally  with  the  late  Marquis  de  Roche- 
briant  ;  that  he  habitually  preserved  the  letters  of  his  corre- 
spondents ;  and  that  these  letters  were  severally  transmitted  to 
you  at  his  decease." 

Alain's  face  had  taken  a  very  grave  expression  while  Graham 
spoke,  and  he  now  replied  with  a  mixture  of  haughtiness  and 
embarrassment  : 

"  The  boxes  containing  the  letters  my  father  received  and  pre- 
served were  sent  to  me  as  you  say  ;  the  larger  portion  of  them 
were  from  ladies,  sorted  and  labelled,  so  that  in  glancing  at 
any  letter  in  each  packet  I  could  judge  of  the  general  tenor  of 
these  in  the  same  packet  without  the  necessity  01"  reading  them. 
All  packets  of  that  kind,  Monsieur  Vane,  I  burned.  I  do  not 
remember  any  letters  signed  '  Marigny.'  " 

"  1  perfectly  understand,  my  dear  Marquis,  that  you  would 
destroy  all  letters  which  your  father  himself  would  have  de- 
stroyed if  his  last  illness  had  been  sufficiently  prolonged.  But 
I  do  not  think  the  letters  I  mean  would  have  come  under  that 
classification  ;  probably  they  were  short,  and  on  matters  of 
business  relating  to  some  third  person — some  person,  for  in- 
stance, of  the  name  of  Louise,  or  of  Duval  !  " 

"  Stop  !  let  me  think.  I  have  a  vague  remembrance  of  one 
pr  two  letters  which  rather  'perplexed  me  ;  they  were  labelled, 


THE  PARISIANS.  431 

Louise  D .     Mem.:  to  make  further  inquiries  as  to  the  fate 

of  her  uncle." 

"  Marquis,  these  are  the  letters  I  seek.  Thank  Heaven,  you 
have  not  destroyed  them  ?" 

"  No  ;  there  was  no  reason  why  I  should  destroy,  though  I 
really  cannot  state  precisely  any  reason  why  I  kept  them.  I 
have  a  very  vague  recollection  of  their  existence." 

"  I  entreat  you  to  allow  me  at  feast  a  glance  at  the  hand- 
writing, and  compare  it  with  that  of  a  letter  I  have  about  me  ; 
and  if  ihe  several  handwritings  correspond,  I  would  ask  you 
to  let  "me  have  the  address,  which,  according  to  your  father's 
memorandum,  will  be  found  in  the  letters  you  have  ^pre- 
served." 

"  To  compliance  with  such  a  request  I  not  only  cannot 
demur,  but  perhaps  it  may  free  me  from  some  responsibility 
which  I  might  have  thought  the  letters  devolved  upon  my 
executorship.  I  am  sure  they  did  not  concern  the  honor  of 
any  woman  of  any  family,  for  in  that  case  I  must  have  burned 
them." 

"  Ah,  Marquis,  shake  hands  there  !  In  such  concord  be- 
tween man  and  man,  there  is  more  entente  cordiale  between 
England  and  France  than  there  was  at  Sebastopol.  Now  let 
me  compare  the  handwritings." 

"  The  box  that  contained  the  letters  is  not  here,  I  left  it  at 
Rochebriant ;  I  will  telegraph  to  my  aunt  to  send  it ;  the  day 
after  to-morrow  it  will  no  doubt  arrive.  Breakfast  with  me 
that  day,  say  at  one  o'clock,  and  after  breakfast  the  box  !  " 

"  How  can  I  thank  you  ?" 

"  Thank  me  !  but  you  said  your  honor  was  concerned  in  your 
request;  requests  affecting  honor  between  men  comme  il  faut 
is  a  ceremony  of  course,  like  a  bow  between  them.  One  bows, 
the  other  returns  the  bow  ;  no  thanks  on  either  side.  Now 
that  we  have  done  with  that  matter,  let  me  say  that  I  thought 
your  wish  for  our  interview  originated  in  a  very  different 
cause." 

"  What  could  that  be  ?  " 

"  Nay,  do  you  not  recollect  that  last  talk  between  us,  when 
with  such  loyalty  you  spoke  to  me  about  Mademoiselle  Cicogna, 
and  supposing  that  there  might  be  a  rivalship  between  us, 
retracted  all  that  you  might  have  before  said  to  warn  me  against 
fostering  the  sentiment  with  which  'she  had  inspired  me  ;  even  ( 
at  the  first  slight  glance  of  a  face  which  cannot  be  lightly  for- 
gotten by  those  who  have  once  seen  it." 

"  I  recollect  perfectly  well  every  word  of  that  talk,  Marquis," 


answered  Graham  calmly,  but  with  his  hand  concealed  within" 
his  vest  and  pressed  tightly  to  his  heart.  The  warning  of  Mrs. 
Morley  flashed  upon  him.  Was  this  the  man  to  seize  the  prize 
he  had  put  aside  ;  this  man,  younger  than  himself,  handsomer 
than  himself,  higher  in  rank?" 

"I  recollect  that  talk,  Marquis  !     Well,  what  then  ?" 

"  In  my  self-conceit  I  supposed  that  you  might  have  heard 
how  much  I  admired  Mademoiselle  Cicogna  ;  how,  having  not 
long  since  met  her  at  the  house  of  Duplessis  (who  by  the  way 
writes  me  word  that  I  shall  meet  you  chez  lui  to-morrow),  I  have 
since  sought  her  society  wherever  there  was  a  chance  to  find 
it.  You  may  have  heard,  at  our  club  or  elsewhere,  how  1 
adore  her  genius ;  how,  I  say,  that  nothing  so  Breton,  that  is, 
so  pure  and  so  lofty,  has  appeared  and  won  readers  since  the 
days  of  Chateaubriand  ;  and  you,  knowing  that  les  absens  out 
toujours  tort,  come  to  me  and  ask  Monsieur  de  Rochebriant, 
Are  we  rivals  ?  I  expected  a  challenge — you  relieve  my  mind — 
you  abandon  the  field  to  me?" 

At  the  first  I  warned  the  reader  how  improved  from  his  old 
mauvaise  honte  a  year  or  so  of  Paris  life  would  make  our  beau 
Marquis.  How  a  year  or  two  of  London  life  with  its  horsey 
slang  and  its  fast  girls  of  the  period  would  have  vulgarized  an 
English  Rochebriant !  Graham  gnawed  his  lips  and  replied 
quietly,  "  I  do  not  challenge  !  Am  I  to  congratulate  you?  " 

"No,  that  brilliant  victory  is  not  forme.  I  thought  that 
was  made  clear  in  the  conversation  I  have  referred  to.  But 
if  you  have  done  me  the  honor  to  be  jealous,  I  am  exceedingly 
flattered.  Speaking  seriously,  if  1  admired  Mademoiselle 
Cicogna  when  you  and  I  last  met,  the  admiration  is  increased 
by  the  respect  with  which  I  regard  a  character  so  simply  noble. 
How  many  women  older  than  she  would  have  been  spoiled  by 
the  adulation  that  has  followed  her  literary  success  !  How 
few  women  so  young,  placed  in  a  position  so  critical,  having 
the  courage  to  lead  a  life  so  independent,  would  have  main- 
tained the  dignity  of  their  character  free  from  a  single  indis- 
cretion !  I  speak  not  from  my  own  knowledge,  but  from  the 
report  of  all,  who  would  be  pleased  enough  to  censure  if  they 
could  find  a  cause.  Good  society  is  the  paradise  of  mauvaises 
langites." 

Graham  caught  Alain's  hand  and  pressed  it,  but  made  no 
answer. 
•     The  young  Marquis  continued  : 

"  You  will  pardon  me  for  speaking  thus  freely  in  the  way 
that  I  would  wish  any  friend  to  speak  of  the  demoiselle  who 


TfcE    PARISIANS.  43$ 

might  become  my  wife.  I  owe  you  much,  not  only  for  the  loy- 
alty with  which  you  addressed  me  in  reference  to  this  young 
lady,  but  for  words  affecting  my  own  position  in  France,  which 
sank  deep  into  my  mind  ;  saved  me  from  deeming  myself  a 
proscrit  in  my  own  land  ;  filled  me  with  a  manly  ambition,  not 
stifled  amidst  the  thick  of  many  effeminate  follies,  and,  in  fact, 
led  me  to  the  career  which  is  about  to  open  before  me,  and  in 
which  my  ancestors  have  left  me  no  undistinguished  examples. 
Let  us  speak,  then,  a  cizur  ouvert,  as  one  friend  to  another. 
Has  there  been  any  misunderstanding  between  you  and  Ma- 
demoiselle Cicogna  which  has  delayed  your  return  to  Paris  ? 
If  so,  is  it  over  now  ?  " 

"There  has  been  no  such  misunderstanding." 

"Do  you  doubt  whether  the  sentiments  you  expressed  in 
regard  to  her,  when  we  met  last  year,  are  returned  ?" 

"  I  have  no  right  to  conjecture  her  sentiments.  You  mistake 
altogether." 

"  I  do  not  believe  that  I  am  dunce  enough  to  mistake  your  feel- 
ings towards  Mademoiselle  —  they  may  be  read  in  your  face  at 
this  moment.  Of  course  I  do  not  presume  to  hazard  a  'con- 
jecture as  to  those  of  Mademoiselle  towards  yourself.  But 
when  I  met  her  not  long  since  at  the  house  of  Duplessis,  with 
whose  daughter  she  is  intimate,  I  chanced  to  speak  to  her  of 
you  ;  and  if  I  may  judge,  by  looks  and  manner,  I  chose  no  dis- 
pleasing theme.  You  turn  away  —  I  offend  you  ?  " 

"  Offend  \  No,  indeed  ;  but  on  this  subject  I  am  not  prepared 
to  converse.  I  came  to  Paris  on  matters  of  business  much 
complicated  and  which  ought  to  absorb  my  attention.  I  can- 
not longer  trespass  on  your  evening.  The  day  after  to-morrow, 
then,  I  will  be  with  you  at  one  o'clock." 

'*  Yes,  I  hope  then  to  have  the  letters  you  wish  to  consult  ; 
and,  meanwhile,  we  meet  to-morrow  at  the  Hotel  Duplessis." 


CHAPTER  VI. 

GRAHAM  had  scarcely  quitted  Alain,  and  the  young  Mar- 
quis was  about  to  saunter  forth  to  his  club,  when  Duplessis 
was  announced^ 

These  two  men  had  naturally  seen  much  of  each  other  since 
Duplessis  had  returned  from  Bretagne  and  delivered  Alain 
from  the  gripe  of  Louvier.  Scarcely  a  day  had  passed  but  what 
Alain  had  been  summoned  to  enter  into  the  financier's  plans 
for  the  aggrandizement  of  the  Rochebriant  estates,  and  deli- 


<  34  ™fi  PARISIANS. 

cately  made  to  feel  that  he  had  become  a  partner  in  specula- 
tions, which,  thanks  to  the  capital  and  the  abilities  of  Du- 
plessis  brought  to  bear,  seemed  likely  to  result  in  the  ultimate 
freedom  of  his  property  from  all  burdens,  and  the  restoration 
of  his  inheritance  to  a  splendor  correspondent  with  the  dignity 
of  his  rank. 

On  the  plea  that  his  mornings  were  chiefly  devoted  to  pro- 
fessional business,  Duplessis  arranged  that  these  consultations 
should  take  place  in  the  evenings.  From  those  consultations 
Valerie  was  not  banished  ;  Duplessis  took  her  into  the  council 
as  a  matter  of  course.  "  Valerie,"  said  the  financier  to  Alain, 
"though  so  young,  has  a  very  clear  head  for  business,  and  she 
is  so  interested  in  all  t"hat  interests  myself,  that  even  where  I  do 
not  take  her  opinion,  I  at  least  feel  my  own  made  livelier  and 
brighter  by  her  sympathy." 

So  the  girl  was  in  the  habit  of  taking  her  work  or  her  book 
into  the  cabinet  de  travail,  and  never  obtruding  a  suggestion 
unasked,  still,  when  appealed  to,  speaking  with  a  modest  good 
sense  which  justified  her  father's  confidence  and  praise  ;  and 
apropos  of  her  book,  she  had  taken  Chateaubriand  into  pecu- 
liar favor.  Alain  had  respectfully  presented  to  her  beautifully 
bound  copies  of  "  Atala,"  and  "  Le  Genie  du  Christianisme  "; 
it  is  astonishing,  indeed,  how  he  had  already  contrived  to 
regulate  her  tastes  in  literature.  The  charms  of  those  quiet 
family  evenings  had  stolen  into  the  young  Breton's  heart. 

He  yearned  for  none  of  the  gayer  reunions  in  which  he  had 
before  sought  for  a  pleasure  that  his  nature  had  not  found  ; 
for,  amidst  the  amusements  of  Paris  Alain  remained  intensely 
Breton,  viz.,  formed  eminently  for  the  simple  joys  of  domestic 
life,  associating  the  sacred  hearthstone  with  the  antique  relig- 
ion of  his  fathers  ;  gathering  round  it  all  the  images  of  pure 
and  noble  affections  which  the  romance  of  a  poetic  tempera- 
ment had  evoked  from  the  solitude  which  had  surrounded  a 
melancholy  boyhood,  an  uncontaminated  youth. 

Duplessis  entered  abruptly,  and  with  a  countenance  much 
disturbed  from  its  wonted  saturnine  composure. 

"  Marquis,  Avhat  is  this  I  have  just  heard  from  the  Duchesse 
de  Tarascon  ?  Can  it  be  ?  You  ask  military^gervice  in  this 
ill  omened  war? — You?" 

"  My  dear  and  best  friend,"  said  Alain,  very  much  startled, 
"  I  should  have  thought  that  you,  of  all  men  in  the  world, 
would  have  most  approved  of  my  request — you,  so  devoted  an 
Imperialist — you,  indignant  that  the  representative  of  one  of 
these  families,  which  the  first  Napoleon  so  eagerly  and  so  vainly 


THE    PARISIANS.  435 

Courted,  should  ask  for  the  grade  of  sous-lieutenant  in  the 
armies  of  Napoleon  the  Third — you,  who  of  all  men  know  how 
ruined  are  the  fortunes  of  a  Rochebriant — you  feel  surprised, 
that  he  clings  to  the  noblest  heritage  his  ancestors  have  left  to 
him — their  sword  !  I  do  not  understand  you." 

"Marquis,"  said  Duplessis,  seating  himself,  and  regarding 
Alain  with  a  look  in  which  were  blended  the  sort  of  admiration 
and  the  sort  of  contempt  with  which  a  practical  man  of  the 
world,  who,  having  himself  gone  through  certain  credulous 
follies,  has  learned  to  despise  the  follies,  but  retains  a  reminis- 
cence of  sympathy  with  the  fools  they  bewitch  :  "  Marquis, 
pardon  me  ;  you  talk  finely,  but  you  do  not  talk  common-sense. 
I  should  be  extremely  pleased  if  your  legitimate  scruples  had 
allowed  you  to  solicit,  or  rather  to  accept,  a  civil  appointment 
not  unsuited  to  your  rank,  under  the  ablest  sovereign,  as  a 
civilian,  to  whom  France  can  look  for  rational  liberty  combined 
with  established  order.  Such  openings  to  a  suitable  career  you 
have  rejected  ;  but  who  on  earth  could  expect  you,  never  trained 
to  military  service,  to  draw  a  sword  hitherto  sacred  to  the 
Bourbons,  on  behalf  of  a  cause  which  the  madness,  I  do  not 
say  of  France  but  of  Paris,  has  enforced  on  a  sovereign  against 
whom  you  would  fight  to-morrow  if  you  had  a  chance  of  plac- 
ing the  descendant  of  Henry  IV.  on  his  throne  ?" 

"  I  am  not  about  to  fight  for  any  sovereign,  but  for  my 
country  against  the  foreigner." 

"  An  excellent  answer  if  the  foreigner  had  invaded  your 
country  ;  but  it  seems  that  your  country  is  going  to  invade  the 
foreigner — a  very  different  thing.  Chut 7  all  this  discussion  is 
most  painful  to  me.  I  feel  for  the  Emperor  a  personal  loyalty, 
and  for  the  hazards  he  is  about  to  encounter  a  prophetic 
dread,  as  an  ancestor  of  yours  might  have  felt  for  Francis  I. 
could  he  have  foreseen  Pavia.  Let  us  talk  of  ourselves  and 
the  effect  the  war  should  have  upon  our  individual  action. 
You  are  aware,  of  course,  that,  though  M.  Louvier  has  had 
notice  of  our  intention  to  pay  off  his  mortgage,  that  intention 
cannot  be  carried  into  effect  for  six  months  ;  if  the  money 
be  not  then  forthcoming  his  hold  on  Rochebriant  remains 
unshaken — the  sum  is  large." 

"  Alas  !  yes." 

"  The  war  must  greatly  disturb  the  money-market,  affect 
many  speculative  adventures  and  operations'when  at  the  very 
moment  credit  may  be  most  needed.  It  is  absolutely  neces- 
sary that  I  should  be  daily  at  my  post  on  the  Bourse,  and 
hourly  watch  the  ebb  and  flow  of  events.  Under  these  cir- 


436  THE   PARISIANS. 

cumstances  I  had  counted,  permit  me  to  count  still,  on  yolif 
presence  in  Bretagne.  We  have  already  begun  negotiations 
on  a  somewhat  extensive  scale,  whether  as  regards  the  im- 
provement of  forests  and  orchards,  or  the  plans  for  building 
allotments,  as  soon  as  the  lands  are  free  for  disposal — for  all 
these  the  eye  of  a  master  is  required.  I  entreat  you,  then,  to 
take  up  your  residence  at  Rochebriant." 

"  My  dear  friend,  this  is- but  a  kindly  and  delicate  mode  of 
relieving  me  from  the  dangers  of  war.  I  have,  as  you  must  be 
conscious,  no  practical  knowledge  of  business.  Hebert  can  be 
implicitly  trusted,  and  will  carry  out  your  views  with  a  zeal 
equal  to  mine,  and  with  infinitely  more  ability." 

"  Marquis,  pray  neither  to  Hercules  nor  to  Hebert ;  if  you 
wish  to  get  your  own  cart  out  of  the  ruts,  put  your  own 
shoulder  to  the  wheel." 

Alain  colored  high,  unaccustomed  to  be  so  bluntly  ad- 
dressed, but  he  replied  with  a  kind  of  dignified  meekness  : 

"  I  shall  ever  remain  grateful  for  what  you  have  done,  and 
wish  to  do  for  me.  But,  assuming  that  you  suppose  rightly, 
the  estates  of  Rochebriant  would,  in  your  hands,  become 
a  profitable  investment,  and  more  than  redeem  the  mortgage, 
and  the  sum  you  have  paid  Louvier  on  my  account,  let  it  pass 
to  you  irrespectively  of  me.  I  shall  console  myself  in  the 
knowledge  that  the  old  place  will  be  restored,  and  those  who 
honored  its  old  owners  prosper  in  hands  so  strong,  guided  by 
a  heart  so  generous." 

Duplessis  was  deeply  affected  by  these  simple  words  ;  they 
seized  him  on  the  tenderest  side  of  his  character,  for  his  heart 
was  generous,  and  no  one,  except  his  lost  wife  and  his  loving 
child,  had  ever  before  discovered  it  to  be  so.  Has  it  ever 
happened  to  you,  reader,  to  be  appreciated  on  the  one  point 
of  the  good  or  the  great  that  is  in  you — on  which  secretly  you 
value  yourself  most,  but  for  which  nobody,  not  admitted  into 
your  heart  of  hearts,  has  given  you  credit  ?  If  that  has  hap- 
pened to  you,  judge  what  Duplessis  felt  when  the  fittest 
representative  of  that  divine  chivalry  which,  if  sometimes 
deficient  in  head,  owes  all  that  exalts  it  to  riches  of  heart,  spoke 
thus  to  the  professional  money-maker,  whose  qualities  of  head 
were'so  acknowledged  that  a  compliment  to  them  would  be  a 
hollow  impertinence,  and  whose  qualities  of  heart  had  never 
yet  received  a  compliment  ! 

Duplessis  started  from  his  seat  and  embraced  Alain,  mur- 
muring :  "  Listen  to  me,  I  love  you — I  never  had  a  son — be 
mine — Rochebriant  shall  be  my  daughter's  dot." 


THE    PARISIANS.  437 

Alain  returned  the  embrace,  and  then  recoiling,  said  : 

"Father,  your  first  desire  must  be  honor  for  your  son. 
You  have  guessed  my  secret — I  have  learned  to  love  Valerie. 
Seeing  her  out  in  the  world,  she  seemed  like  other  girls,  fair 
and  commonplace  ;  seeing  her  at  your  house,  I  have  said  to 
myself:  'There  is  the  one  girl  fairer  than  all  others  in  my 
eyes,  and  the  one  individual  to  whom  all  other  girls  are  com- 
monplace.' " 

"Is  that  true?     Is  it?" 

"  True  !  does  a  gentilhomme  ever  lie  ?  And  out  of  that  love 
for  her  has  grown  this  immovable  desire  to  be  something 
worthy  of  her ;  something  that  may  lift  me  from  the  vulgar 
platform  of  men  who  owe  all  to  ancestors,  nothing  to  them- 
selves. Do  you  suppose  for  one  moment  that  I,  saved  from 
ruin  and  penury  by  Valerie's  father,  could  be  base  enough  to 
say  to  her:  'In  return 'be  Madame  la  Marquise  de  Roche- 
briant'?  Do  you  suppose  that  I,  whom  you  would  love  and 
respect  as  son,  could  come  to  you  and  say :  "  I  am  oppressed 
by  your  favors ;  I  am  crippled  with  debts  ;  give  me  your  mil- 
lions and  we  are  quits'?  No,  Duplessis !  You,  so  well  de- 
scended yourself;  so  superior  as  man  amongst  men  'that  you 
would  have  won  name  and  position  had  you  been  born  the  son 
of  a  shoeblack — you  would  eternally  despise  the  noble  who,  in 
days  when  all  that  we  Bretons  deem  holy  in  noblesse  are  sub- 
jected to  ridicule  and  contempt,  should  so  vilely  forget  the 
only  motto  which  the  scutcheons  of  all  gtntilsKommes  have  in 
common,  ''Noblesse  oblige.'  War  with  all  its  perils  and  all  its 
grandeur — war  lifts  on  high  the  banners  of  France — war,  in 
which  every  ancestor  of  mine  whom  I  care  to  recall  aggran- 
dized the  name  that  descends  to  me.  Let  me  then  do  as  those 
before  me  have  done  ;  let  me  prove  that  I  am  worth  something 
in  myself,  and  then  you  and  I  are  equals  ;«and  I  can  say  with 
no  humbled  crest :  '  Your  benefits  are  accepted ' :  the  man 
who  has  fought  not  ignobly  for  France  may  aspire  to  the  hand 
of  her  daughter.  Give  me  Valerie ;  as  to  her  dot — be  it  so, 
Rochebriant — it  will  pass  to  her  children." 

"  Alain  !  Alain  !  my  son  ! — but  if  you  fall  ?" 

"  Valerie  will  give  you  a  nobler  son." 

Duplessis  moved  away,  sighing  heavily  ,  but  he  said  no  more 
in  deprecation  of  Alain's  martial  resolves. 

A  Frenchman,  however  practical,  however  worldly,  however 
philosophical  he  may  be,  who  does  not  sympathize  with  the 
Allies  of  honor— who  does  not  concede  indulgence  to  the  hot 
blood  of  youth  when  he  says  :  "  My  country  is  insulted  and 


438  THE    PARISIANS. 

her  banner  is  unfurled,"  may  certainly  be  a  man  of  excellent 
common-sense ;  but  if  such  men  had  been   in   the  majority, 
Gaul  would  never  have  been  France — Gaul  would  have  been( 
a  province  of  Germany. 

And  as  Duplessis  walked  homeward — he  the  calmest  and 
most  far-seeing  of  all  authorities  on  the  Bourse  ;  the  man  who, 
excepting  only  De  Mauleon,  most  decidedly  deemed  the  cause 
of  the  war  a  blunder,  and  most  forebodingly  anticipated  its 
issues,  caught  the  prevalent  enthusiasm.  Everywhere  he  was 
stopped  by  cordial  hands,  everywhere  met  by  congratulating 
smiles.  "How  right  you  have  been,  Duplessis,  when  you  have 
laughed  at  those  who  have  said,  '  The  Emperor  is  ill,  decrepit, 
done  up.'" 

"  Vive  V Empereur !  At  last  we  shall  be  face  to  face  with 
those  insolent  Prussians  !  " 

Before  he  arrived  at  his  home,  passing  along  the  Boulevards, 
greeted  by  all  the  groups  enjoying  the  cool  night  air  before 
the  cafes,  Duplessis  had  caught  the  war  epidemic. 

Entering  his  hotel,  he  went  at  once  to  Valerie's  chamber. 
"  Sleep  well  to-night,  child  ;  Alain  has  told  me  that  he  adores 
thee,  and  if  he  will  go  to  the  war,  it  is  that  he  may  lay  his 
laurels  at  thy  feet.  Bless  thee,  my  child,  thou  couldstnot  have 
made  a  nobler  choice." 

Whether,  after  these  words,  Valerie  slept  well  or  not  'tis  not 
for  me  to  say ;  but  if  she  did  sleep,  I  venture  to  guess  that  her 
dreams  were  rose-colored. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

ALL  the  earlier  part  of  that  next  day,  Graham  Vane  remained 
indoors — a  lovely  day  at  Paris  that  8th  of  July,  and  with  that 
summer  day  all  hearts  at  Paris  were  in  unison.  Discontent 
was  charmed  into  enthusiasm  ;  Belleville  and  Montmartre  for- 
got the  visions  of  Communism  and  Socialism  and  other  "  isms  " 
not  to  be  realized  except  in  some  undiscovered  Atlantis  ! 

The  Emperor  was  the  idol  of  the  day  ;  the  names  of  Jules 
Favre  and  Gambetta  were  bywords  of  scorn.  Even  Armand 
Monnier,  still  out  of  work,  beginning  to  feel  the  pinch  of  want, 
and  fierce  for  any  revolution  that  might  might  turn  topsy-turvy 
the  conditions  of  labor — even  Armand  Monnier  was  found 
among  groups  that  were  laying  immortelles  at  the  foot  of  the 
column  in  the  Place  Vendome,  and  heard  to  say  to  a  fellow- 
malcontent,  with  eyes  uplifted  to  the  statue  of  the  first  Napo- 


THE    PARISIANS.  439 

Icon  :  "  Do  you  not  feel  at  this  moment  that  no  Frenchman 
can  be  long  angry  with  the  little  corporal  ?  He  denied  La 
Libert^  but  he  gave  La  Gloire" 

Heeding  not  the  stir  of  the  world  without,  Graham  was  com- 
pelling into  one  resolve  the  doubts  and  scruples  which  had  so 
long  warred  against  the  heart  which  they  ravaged,  but  could 
not  wholly  subdue. 

The  conversations  with  Mrs.  Morley  and  Rochebriant  had 
placed  in  a  light  in  which  he  had  not  before  regarded  it,  the 
image  of  Isaura. 

He  had  reasoned  from  the  starting-point  of  his  love  for  her, 
and  had  sought  to  convince  himself  that  against  that  love  it  was 
his  duty  to  strive. 

But  now  a  new  question  was  addressed  to  his  conscience  as 
well  as  to  his  heart.  What  though  he  had  never  formally 
declared  to  her  his  affection  ;  never,  in  open  words,  wooed  her 
as  his  own  ;  never  even  hinted  to  her  the  hopes  of  a  union 
which  at  one  time  he  had  fondly  entertained, — still  was  it 
true  that  his  love  had  been  too  transparent  not  to  be  detected 
by  her,  and  not  to  have  led  her  on  to  return  it  ? 

Certainly  he  had,  as  we  know,  divined  that  he  was  not  in- 
different to  her  :  at  Enghien,  a  year  ago,  that  he  had  gained 
her  esteem,  and  perhaps  interested  her  fancy. 

We  know  also  how  he  had  tried  to  persuade  himself  that  the 
artistic  temperament,  especially  when  developed  in  women,  is 
too  elastic  to  suffer  the  things  of  real  life  to  have  lasting  influ- 
ence over  happiness  or  sorrow  ;  that  in  the  pursuits  in  which 
her  thought  and  imagination  found  employ,  in  the  excitement 
they  sustained,  and  the  fame  to  which  they  conduced,  Isaura 
would  be  readily  consoled  for  a  momentary  pang  of  disap- 
pointed affection.  And  that  a  man  so  alien  as  himself,  both 
by  nature  and  by  habit,  from  the  artistic  world,  was  the  very 
last  person  who  could  maintain  deep  and  permanent  impression 
on  her  actual  life  or  her  ideal  dreams.  But  what  if,  as  he 
gathered  from  the  words  of  the  fair  American — what  if,  ;n  all 
these  assumptions,  he  was  wholly  mistaken  ?  What  if,  in  pre- 
viously revealing  his  own  heart,  he  had  decoyed  hers  ?  What 
if,  by  a  desertion  she  had  no  right  to  anticipate,  he  had  blighted 
her  future?  What  if  this  brilliant  child  of  genius  could  love  as 
warmly,  as  deeply,  as  enduringly  as  any  simple  village  girl  to 
whom  there  is  no  poetry  except  love  ?  If  this  were  so — what 
became  the  first  claim  on  his  honor,  his  conscience,  his  duty? 

The  force  which  but  a  few  days  ago  his  reasonings  had 
given  to  the  arguments  that  forbade  him  to  think  of  Jsaura, 


440  THE    PARISIANS. 

became  weaker  and  weaker,  as  now  in  an  altered  mood  of 
reflection  he  re-summoned  and  re-weighed  them. 

All  those  prejudices,  which  had  seemed  to  him  such  rational 
common-sense  truths,  when  translated  from  his  own  mind  into 
the  words  of  Lady  Janet's  letter — was  not  Mrs.  Morley  right 
in  denouncing  them  as  the  crotchets  of  an  insolent  egotism  ? 
Was  it  not  rather  to  the  favor  than  to  the  disparagement  of 
Isaura,  regarded  even  in  the  man's  narrow-minded  view  of 
woman's  dignity,  that  this  orphan  girl  could,  with  character  so 
unscathed,  pass  through  the  trying  ordeal  of  the  public  babble, 
the  public  gaze  ;  command  alike  the  esteem  of  a  woman  so 
pure  as  Mrs.  Morley,  the  reverence  of  a  man  so  chivalrously 
sensitive  to  honor  as  Alain  de  Rochebriant  ? 

Musing  this,  Graham's  countenance  at  last  brightened — a 
glorious  joy  entered  into  and  possessed  him.  He  felt  as  a  man 
who  had  burst  asunder  the  swathes  and  trammels  which  had 
kept  him  galled  and  miserable  with  the  sense  of  captivity,  and 
from  which  some  wizard  spell  that  took  strength  from  his  own 
superstition  had  forbidden  to  struggle. 

He  was  free  !  And  that  freedom  was  rapture  !  Yes,  his 
resolve  was  taken. 

The  day  was  now  far  advanced.  He  should  have  just  time 

before  the  dinner  with  Duplessis  to  drive  to  A ,  where  he 

still  supposed  Isaura  resided.  How,  as  his  fiacre  rolled  along 
the  well-remembered  road — how  completely  he  lived  in  that 
world  of  romance  of  which  he  denied  himself  to  be  a  denizen. 

Arrived  at  the  little  villa,  he  found  it  occupied  only  by  work- 
men— it  was  under  repair.  No  one  could  tell  him  to  what 
residence  the  ladies  who  occupied  it  the  last  year  had  removed. 

"  I  shall  learn  from  Mrs.  Morley,"  thought  Graham,  and  at 
her  house  he  called  in  going  back,  but  Mrs.  Morley  was  not 
at  home  ;  he  had  only  just  time,  after  regaining  his  apart- 
ment, to  change  his  dress  for  the  dinner  to  which  he  was 
invited.  As  it  was,  he  arrived  late,  and  while  apologizing  to  his 
host  for  his  want  of  punctuality,  his  tongue  faltered.  At  the 
farther  end  of  the  room  he  saw  a  face,  paler  and  thinner  than 
when  he  had  seen  it  last  —a  face  across  which  a  something  of 
grief  had  gone. 

The  servant  announced  that  dinner  was  served. 

"  Mr.  Vane,"  said  Duplessis,  "  will  you  take  into  dinnei 
Mademoiselle  Cicogna  ? '' 


THE   PARISIANS.  44! 

BOOK  XL 


CHAPTER  I. 

AMONG  the  frets  and  checks  to  the  course  that  "  never  did 
run  smooth,"  there  is  one  which  is  sufficiently  frequent,  for 
many  a  reader  will  remember  the  irritation  it  caused  him. 
You  have  counted  on  a  meeting  with  the  beloved  one  unwit- 
nessed by  others,  an  interchange  of  confessions  and  vows  which 
others  may  not  hear.  You  have  arranged  almost  the  words  in 
which  your  innermost  heart  is  to  be  expressed  ;  pictured  to 
yourself  the  very  looks  by  which  those  words  will  have  their 
sweetest  reply.  The  scene  you  have  thus  imagined  appears  to 
you  vivid  and  distinct,  as  if  foreshown  in  a  magic  glass.  And 
suddenly,  after  long  absence,  the  meeting  takes  place  in  the 
midst  of  a  common  companionship  :  nothing  that  you  wished 
to  say  can  be  said.  The  scene  you  pictured  is  painted  out  by 
the  irony  of  Chance  ;  and  groups  and  backgrounds  of  which  you 
had  never  dreamed,  start  forth  from  the  disappointing  canvas. 
Happy  if  that  be  all  !  But  sometimes,  by  a  strange,  subtle 
intuition,  you  feel  that  the  person  herself  is  changed  ;  and  sym- 
pathetic with  that  change,  a  terrible  chill  comes  over  your  own 
heart. 

Before  Graham  had  taken  his  seat  at  the  table  beside  Isaura, 
he  felt  that  she  was  changed  to  him.  He  felt  it  by  her  very 
touch  as  their  hands  met  at  the  first  greeting  ;  by  the  tone  of 
her  voice  in  the  few  words  that  passed  between  them  ;  by  the 
absence  of  all  glow  in  the  smile  which  had  once  lit  up  her  face, 
as  a  burst  of  sunshine  lights  up  a  day  in  spring,  and  gives  a 
richer  gladness  of  color  to  all  its  blooms.  Once  seated  side  by 
side  they  remained  for  some  moments  silent.  Indeed  it  would 
have  been  rather  difficult  for  anything  less  than  the  wonderful 
intelligence  of  lovers  between  whom  no  wall  can  prevent  the 
stolen  interchange  of  tokens,  to  have  ventured  private  talk  of 
their  own  amid  the  excited  converse  which  seemed  all  eyes,  all 
tongues,  all  ears,  admitting  no  one  present  to  abstract  himself 
from  the  common  emotion.  Englishmen  do  not  recognize  the 
old  classic  law  which  limited  the  number  of  guests,  where  ban- 
quets are  meant  to  be  pleasant,  to  that  of  the  Nine  Muses. 
They  invite  guests  so  numerous,  and  so  shy  of  launching  talk 
across  the  table,  that  you  may  talk  to  the  person  next  to  you 


442  THE    PARISIANS. 

not  less  secure  from  listeners  than  you  would  be  in  talking 
with  the  stranger  whom  you  met  at  a  well  in  the  Sahara.  It  is 
not  so,  except  on  state  occasions,  at  Paris.  Difficult  there  to 
retire  into  solitude  with  your  next  neighbor.  The  guests  col- 
lected by  Duplessis  completed  with  himself  the  number  of  the 
Sacred  Nine — the  host,  Valerie,  Rochebriant,  Graham,  Isaura, 
Signora  Venosta,  La  Duchesse  de  Tarascon,  the  wealthy  and 

high-born  Imperialist,  Prince ,  and  last  and  least,  one  who 

shall  be  nameless. 

I  have  read  somewhere,  perhaps  in  one  of  the  books  which 
American  superstition  dedicates  to  the  mysteries  of  Spiritual- 
ism, how  a  gifted  seer,  technically  styled  medium,  sees  at  the 
opera  a  box  which  to  other  eyes  appears  untenanted  and 
empty,  but  to  him  is  full  of  ghosts,  well  dressed  in  tenue  exacle, 
gazing  on  the  boards  and  listening  to  the  music.  Like  such 
ghosts  are  certain  beings  whom  I  call  Lookers-on.  Though 
still  living,  they  have  no  share  in  the  life  they  survey,  they 
come  as  from  another  world  to  hear  and  to  see  what  is  passing 
in  ours.  In  ours  they  lived  once,  but  that  troubled  sort  of  life 
they  have  survived.  Still  we  amuse  them  as  stage-players  and 
puppets  amuse  ourselves.  One  of  these  Lookers-on  completed 
the  party  at  the  house  of  Duplessis. 

How  lively,  how  animated  the  talk  was  at  the  financier's 
pleasant  table  that  day,  the  8th  of  July!  The  excitement  of 
the  coming  war  made  itself  loud  in  every  Gallic  voice,  and 
kindled  in  every  Gallic  eye.  Appeals  at  every  second  minute 
were  made,  sometimes  courteous,  sometimes  sarcastic,  to  the 
Englishman,  promising  son  of  an  eminent  statesman,  and 
native  of  a  country  in  which  France  is  always  coveting  an  ally, 
and  always  suspecting  an  enemy.  Certainly  Graham  could  not 
have  found  a  less  propitious  moment  for  asking  Isaura  if  she 
really  were  changed.  And  certainly  the  honor  of  Great  Brit- 
ain was  never  less  ably  represented  (that  is  saying  a  great  deal) 
than  it  was  on  this  occasion  by  the  young  man  reared  to  diplo- 
macy and  aspiring  to  Parliamentary  distinction.  He  answered 
all  questions  with  a  constrained  voice  and  an  insipid  smile — all 
questions  pointedly  addressed  to  him  as  to  what  demonstra- 
tions of  admiring  sympathy  with  the  gallantry  of  France  might 
be  expected  from  the  English  government  and  people ;  what 
his  acquaintance  with  the  German  races  led  him  to  suppose 
would  be  the  effect  on  the  Southern  States  of  the  first  defeat 
of  the  Prussians  ;  whether  the  man  called  Moltke  was  not  a 
mere  strategist  on  paper,  a  crotchety  pedant ;  whether,  if  Bel- 
gium became  so  enamoured  of  the  glories  of  France  as  to  solicit 


THE    PARISIANS.  443 

fusion  with  her  people,  England  would  have  a  right  to  offer 
any  objection,  etc.,  etc.  I  do  not  think  that  during  that  festi- 
val Graham  once  thought  one-millionth  so  much  about  the 
fates  of  Prussia  and  France  as  he  did  think,  "Why  is  that  girl 
so  changed  to  me?  Merciful  heaven  !  is  she  lost  to  my  life  ?  " 
By  training,  by  habit,  even  by  passion,  the  man  was  a  genu- 
ine politician,  cosmopolitan  as  well  as  patriotic,  accustomed  to 
consider  what  effect  every  vibration  in  that  balance  of  Euro- 
pean power,  which  no  deep  thinker  can  despise,  must  have  on 
the  destinies  of  civilized  humanity,  and  on  those  of  the  nation 
to  which  he  belongs.  But  are  there  not  moments  in  life  when 
the  human  heart  suddenly  narrows  the  circumference  to  which 
its  emotions  are  extended?  As  the  ebb  of  a  tide,  it  retreats 
from  the  shores  it  had  covered  on  its  flow,  drawing  on  with 
contracted  waves  the  treasure-trove  it  has  selected  to  hoard 
amid  its  deeps. 

CHAPTER  II. 

ON  quitting  the  dining-room,  the  Duchesse  de  Tarascon  said 
to  her  host,  on  whose  arm  she  was  leaning :  "  Of  course  you 
and  I  must  go  with  the  stream.  But  is  not  all  the  fine  talk 
that  has  passed  to-day  at  your  table,  and  in  which  we  too  have 
joined,  a  sort  of  hypocrisy  ?  I  may  say  this  to  you  ;  I  would 
say  it  to  no  other." 

"  And  I  say  to  you,  Madame  la  Duchesse,  that  which  I 
would  say  to  no  other.  Thinking  over  it  as  I  sit  alone,  I  find 
myself  making  a  '  terrible  hazard' ;  but  when  I  go  abroad  and 
become  infected  by  the  general  enthusiasm,  I  pluck  up  gayely 
of  spirit,  and  whisper  to  myself :  'True,  but  it  may  be  an  enor- 
mous gain.'  To  get  the  left  bank  of  the  Rhine  is  a  trifle  ;  but 
to  check  in  our  next  neighbor  a  growth  which  a  few  years 
hence  would  overtop  us — that  is  no  trifle.  And,  be  the  gain 
worth  the  hazard  or  not,  could  the  Emperor,  could  any  gov- 
ernment likely  to  hold  its  own  for  a  week,  have  declined  to  take 
the  chance  of  the  die  ?  " 

The  Duchesse  mused  a  moment,  and  meanwhile  the  two 
seated  themselves  on  a  divan  in  the  corner  of  the  salon.  Then 
she  said  very  slowly  : 

"  No  government  that  held  its  tenure  on  popular  suffrage 
could  have  done  so.  But  if  the  Emperor  had  retained  the  per- 
sonal authority  which  once  allowed  the  intellect  of  one  man  to 
control  and  direct  the  passions  of  many,  I  think  the  Avar  would 
have  been  averted.  I  have  reason  to  know  that  the  Emperor 


444  THE  PARISIANS. 

and  most  of  the  members  of  the  Council  were  anxious  to  avoid 
the  step  which  was  forced  upon  them  by  the  temper  of  the 
Chamber,  and  reports  of  a  popular  excitement  which  Could  not 
be  resisted  without  imminent  danger  of  revolution.  It  is  Paris 
that  has  forced  the  war  on  the  Emperor.  But  enough  of  this 
subject.  What  must  be,  must,  and,  as  you  say,  the  gain  may 
be  greater  than  the  hazard.  I  come  to  something  else  you 
whispered  to  me  before  we  went  in  to  dinner, — a  sort  of  com- 
plaint which  wounds  me  sensibly.  You  say  I  had  assisted  to 
a  choice  of  danger  and  possibly  of  death  a  very  distant  con- 
nection of  mine,  who  might  have  been  a  very  near  connection 
of  yours.  You  mean  Alain  de  Rochebriant  ?  " 

"Yes  ;  I  accept  him  as  a  suitor  for  the  hand  of  my  only 
daughter." 

"  I  am  so  glad,  not  for  your  sake  so  much  as  for  his.  No 
one  can  know  him  well  without  appreciating  in  him  the  finest 
qualities  of  the  finest  order  of  the  French  noble  ;  but  having 
known  your  pretty  Valerie  so  long,  my  congratulations  are  for 
the  man  who  can  win  her.  Meanwhile,  hear  my  explanation  : 
when  I  promised  Alain  any  interest  I  can  command  for  the 
grade  of  officer  in  a  regiment  of  Mobiles,  I  knew  not  that  he 
had  formed,  or  was  likely  to  form,  ties  or  duties  to  keep  him  at 
home.  I  withdraw  my  promise." 

"  No,  Duchesse,  fulfil  it.  I  should  be  disloyal  indeed  if  I 
robbed  a  sovereign  under  whose  tranquiTand  prosperous  reign 
I  have  acquired,  with  no  dishonor,  the  fortune  which  Order 
proffers  to  Commerce,  of  one  gallant  defender  in  the  hour  of 
need.  And  speaking  frankly,  if  Alain  were  really  my  son,  I 
think  I  am  Frenchman  enough  to  remember  that  France  is  my 
mother." 

"  Say  no  more,  my  friend — say  no  more,"  cried  the  Duchesse, 
with  the  warm  blood  of  the  heart  rushing  through  all  the  deli- 
cate coatings  of  pearl-powder.  "  If  every  Frenchman  felt  as 
you  do  ;  if  in  this  Paris  of  ours  all  hostilities  of  class  may 
merge  in  the  one  thought  of  the  common  country ;  if  in 
French  hearts  there  yet  thrill  the  same  sentiment  as  that 
which,  in  the  terrible  days  when  all  other  ties  were  rent 
asunder,  revered  France  as  mother,  and  rallied  her  sons  to  her 
aid  against  the  confederacy  of  Europe, — why,  then,  we  need 
not  grow  pale  with  dismay  at  the  sight  of  a  Prussian  needle- 
gun.  Hist  !  look  yonder  :  is  not  that  a  tableau  of  Youth  in 
Arcady  ?  Worlds  rage  around,  and  Love,  unconcerned,  whis- 
pers to  Love  ! "  The  Duchesse  here  pointed  to  a  corner  of 
the  adjoining  room  in  which  Alain  and  Valerie  sat  apart,  he 


THE    PARISIANS.  445 

whispering  into  her  ear  :  her  cheek  downcast,  and,  even  seen 
at  that  distance,  brightened  by  the  delicate  tenderness  of  its 
blushes. 

CHAPTER   III. 

BUT  in  that  small  assembly  there  were  two  who  did  not 
attract  the  notice  of  Duplessis,  or  of  the  lady  of  the  Imperial 

Court.  While  the  Prince and  the  placid  Looker-on  were 

engaged  at  a  contest  of  ecarle,  with  the  lively  Venosta,  for  the 
gallery,  interposing  criticisms  and  admonitions,  Isaura  was 
listlessly  turning  over  a  collection  of  photographs,  strewed  on 
a  table  that  stood  near  to  an  open  window  in  the  remoter 
angle  of  the  room,  communicating  with  a  long  and  wide  bal- 
cony filled  partially  with  flowers  and  overlooking  the  Champs 
Elysees,  softly  lit  up  by  the  innumerable  summer  stars.  Sud- 
denly a  whisper,  the  command  of  which  she  could  not  resist, 
thrilled  through  her  ear,  and  sent  the  blood  rushing  back  to 
her  heart. 

"  Do  you  remember  that  evening  at  Enghien  ?  How  I  said 
that  our  imagination  could  not  carry  us  beyond  the  question 
whether  we  two  should  be  gazing  together  that  night  twelve 
months  on  that  star  which  each  of  us  had  singled  out  from  the 
hosts  of  heaven  ?  That  was  the  8th  of  July.  It  is  the  8th  of 
July  once  more.  Come  and  seek  for  our  chosen  star — come. 
I  have  something  to  say,  which  say  I  must.  Come." 

Mechanically,  as  it  were — mechanically,  as  they  tell  us  the 
Somnambulist  obeys  the  Mesmerizer — Isaura  obeyed  that  sum- 
mons. In  a  kind  of  dreamy  submission  she  followed  his  steps, 
and  found  herself  on  the  balcony,  flowers  around  her  and  stars 
above,  by  the  side  of  the  man  who  had  been  to  her  that  being 
ever  surrounded  by  flowers  and  lighted  by  stars — the  ideal  of 
Romance  to  the  heart  of  virgin  woman. 

"  Isaura,"  said  the  Englishman  softly.  At  the  sound  of  her 
own  name  for  the  first  time  heard  from  those  lips,  every  nerve 
in  her  frame  quivered.  "  Isaura,  I  have  tried  to  live  without 
you.  I  cannot.  You  are  all  in  all  to  me  :  without  you  it  seems 
to  me  as  if  earth  had  no  flowers,  and  even  heaven  had  with- 
drawn its  stars.  Are  there  differences  between  us — differences 
of  taste,  of  sentiments,  of  habits,  of  thought  ?  Only  let  me 
hope  that  you  can  love  me  a  tenth  part  so  much  as  I  love  you, 
and  such  differences  cease  to  be  discord.  Love  harmonizes 
all  sounds,  blends  all  colors  into  its  own  divine  oneness  of 
heart  and  soul.  Look  up  \  Is  not  the  star  which  this  time  last 


446  THE    PARISIANS. 

year  invited  our  gaze  above,  is  it  not  still  here  ?  Does  it  not 
still  invite  our  gaze?  Isaura,  speak  !  " 

"  Hush  !  hush  !  hush  !  " — the  girl  could  say  no  more,  but  she 
recoiled  from  his  side. 

The  recoil  did  not  wound  him  :  there  was  no  hate  in  it. 
He  advanced,  he  caught  her  hand,  and  continued,  in  one  of 
those  voices  which  became  so  musical  in  summer  nights  under 
starry  skies  : 

"  Isaura,  there  is  one  name  which  I  can  never  utter  without 
a  reverence  due  to  the  religion  which  binds  earth  to  heaven — • 
a  name  which  to  man  should  be  the  symbol  of  life  cheered  and 
beautified,  exalted,  hallowed.  That  name  is  'wife.'  Will  you 
take  that  name  from  me  ?  " 

And  still  Isaura  made  no  reply.  She  stood  mute,  and  cold, 
and  rigid  as  a  statue  of  marble.  At  length,  as  if  consciousness 
had  been  arrested  and  was  struggling  back,  she  sighed  heavily, 
and  passed  her  hands  slowly  over  her  forehead. 

"  Mockery,  mockery,"  she  said  then,  with  a  smile  half  bitter, 
half  plaintive,  on  her  colorless  lips.  "  Did  you  wait  to  ask  me 
that  question  till  you  knew  what  my  answer  must  be  ?  I  have 
pledged  the  name  of  wife  to  another." 

"  No,  no  ;  you  say  that  to  rebuke,  to  punish  me  !  Unsay  it  ! 
Unsay  it  !  " 

Isaura  beheld  the  anguish  of  his  face  with  bewildered  eyes. 
"  How  can  my  words  pain  you  ?  "  she  said  drearily.  "  Did 
you  not  write  that  I  had  unfitted  myself  to  be  wife  to  you  ?  " 

"I  ?" 

"  That  I  had  left  behind  me  the  peaceful  immunities  of  pri- 
vate life  ?  I  felt  you  were  so  right !  Yes  !  I  am  affianced  to 
one  who  thinks  that  in  spite  of  that  misfortune — " 

"  Stop,  I  command  you — stop  !  You  saw  my  letter  to  Mrs. 
Morley.  I  have  not  had  one  moment  free  from  torture  and 
remorse  since  I  wrote  it.  But  whatever  in  that  letter  you 
might  justly  resent — " 

"  I  did  not  resent — " 

Graham  heard  not  the  interruption,  but  hurried  on.  "You 
would  forgive  could  you  read  my  heart.  No  matter.  Every 
sentiment  in  that  letter,  except  those  which  conveyed  admira- 
tion, I  retract.  Be  mine,  and  instead  of  presuming  to  check 
in  you  the  irresistable  impulse  of  genius  to  the  first  place  in 
the  head  or  the  heart  of  the  world,  I  will  teach  myself  to 
encourage,  to  share,  to  exult  in  it.  Do  you  know  what  a  differ- 
ence there  is  between  the  absent  one  and  the  present  one? 
Between  the  distant  image  against  \vhom  our  doubts,  our  fears, 


THE    PARISIANS.  447 

% 

our  suspicions,  raise  up  hosts  of  imaginary  giants,  barriers  of 
visionary  walls,  and  the  beloved  face  before  the  sight  of  which 
the  hosts  are  fled,  the  walls  are  vanished  ?  Isaura,  we  meet 
again.  You  know  now  from  my  own  lips  that  I  love  you.  I 
think  your  lips  will  not  deny  that  you  love  me.  You  say  that 
you  are  affianced  to  another.  Tell  the  man  frankly,  honestly, 
that  you  mistook  your  heart.  It  is  not  yours  to  give.  Save 
yourself,  save  him,  from  a  union  in  which  there  can  be  no 
happiness." 

"  It  is  too  late,"  said  Isaura,  with  hollow  tones,  but  with  no 
trace  of  vacillating  weakness  on  her  brow  and  lips.  "  Did  I 
say  now  to  that  other  one, '  I  break  the  faith  that  I  pledged  to 
you,'  I  should  kill  him,  body  and  soul.  Slight  thing  though  I 
be,  to  him  I  am  all  in  all  ;  to  you,  Mr.  Vane,  to  you  a  memory — 
the  memory  of  one  whom  a  year,  perhaps  a  month,  hence,  you 
will  rejoice  to  think  you  have  escaped." 

She  passed  from  him — passed  away  from  the  flowers  and  the 
starlight  ;  and  when  Graham,  recovering  from  the  stun  of  her 
crushing  words,  and  with  the  haughty  mien  and  step  of  the 
man  who  goes  forth  from  the  ruin  of  his  hopes,  leaning  for 
support  upon  his  pride — when  Graham  re-entered  the  room, 
all  the  guests  had  departed  save  only  Alain,  who  was  still 
exchanging  whispered  words  with  Valerie. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

THE  next  day,  at  the  hour  appointed,  Graham  entered 
Alain's  apartment.  "  I  am  glad  to  tell  you,"  said  the  Marquis 
gayly,  "that  the  box  has  arrived,  and  we  will  very  soon  examine 
its  contents.  Breakfast  claims  precedence."  During  the  meal 
Alain  was  in  ga*y  spirits,  and  did  not  at  first  notice  the  gloomy 
countenance  and  abstracted  mood  of  his  guest.  At  length, 
surprised  at  the  dull  response  to  his  lively  sallies  on  the  part 
of  a  man  generally  so  pleasant  in  the  frankness  of  his  speech, 
and  the  cordial  ring  of  his  sympathetic  laugh,  it  occurred  to 
him  that  the  change  in  Graham  must  be  ascribed  to  something 
that  had  gone  wrong  in  the  meeting  with  Isaura  the  evening 
before  ;  and  remembering  the  curtness  with  which  Graham 
had  implied  disinclination  to  converse  about  the  fair  Italian, 
he  felt  perplexed  how  to  reconcile  the  impulse  of  his  good- 
nature with  the  discretion  imposed  on  his  good-breeding.  At 
all  events,  a  compliment  to  the  lady  whom  Graham  had  so 
admired  could  do  not  harm. 


448  THE    PARISIANS. 

"  How  well  Mademoiselle  Cicogna  looked  last  night  !" 

"  Did  she  ?  It  seemed  to  me  that,  in  health  at  least,  she 
did  not  look  very  well.  Have  you  heard  what  day  M.  Thiers 
will  speak  on  the  war  ?  " 

"Thiers?  No.  Who  cares  about  Thiers  ?  Thank  Heaven, 
his  day  is  past  !  I  don't  know  any  unmarried  woman  in 
Paris,  not  even  Valerie — I  mean  Mademoiselle  Duplessis — who 
has  so  exquisite  a  taste  in  dress  as  Mademoiselle  Cicogna. 
Generally  speaking,  the  taste  of  a  female  author  is  atrocious." 

"  Really — I  did  not  observe  her  dress.  I  am  no  critic  on 
subjects  so  dainty  as  the  dress  of  ladies,  or  the  tastes  of  female 
authors." 

"  Pardon  me,"  said  the  beau  Marquis  gravely.  "  As  to 
dress,  I  think  that  that  is  so  essential  a  thing  in  the  mind  of 
woman,  that  no  man  who  cares  about  women  ought  to  disdain 
critical  study  of  it.  In  woman,  refinement  of  character  is 
never  found  in  vulgarity  of  dress.  I  have  only  observed  that 
truth  since  I  came  up  from  Bretagne." 

"  I  presume,  my  dear  Marquis,  that  you  may  have  read  in 
Bretagne  books  which  very  few  not  being  professed  scholars 
have  ever  read  at  Paris  ;  and  possibly  you  may  remember  that 
Horace  ascribes  the  most  exquisite  refinement  in  dress,  denoted 
by  the  untranslatable  words,  '  simplex  munditiis,'  to  a  lady  who 
was  not  less  distinguished  by  the  ease  and  rapidity  with  which 
she  coald  change  her  affection.  Of  course  that  allusion  does 
not  apply  to  Mademoiselle  Cicogna  ;  but  there  are  many  other 
exquisitely  dressed  ladies  at  Paris  of  whom  an  ill-fated  ad- 
mirer 

'  fidem 
Mutatosque  decs  flebit.' 

Now,  with  your  permission,  we  will  adjourn  to.the  box  of  let- 
ters." 

The  box  being  produced  and  unlocked,  Alain  looked  with 
conscientious  care  at  its  contents  before  he  passed  over  to 
Graham's  inspection  a  few  epistles,  in  which  the  Englishman 
immediately  detected  the  same  handwriting  as  that  of  the 
letter  from  Louise  which  Richard  King  had  bequeathed  to  him. 

They  were  arranged  and  numbered  chronologically. 

LETTER  I. 

"  DEAR  M.  LE  MARQUIS  : 

"  How  can  I  thank  you  sufficiently  for  obtaining  and  remitting 
to  me  those  certificates  ?  You  are,  too,  aware  of  the  unhappy 
episode  in  my  life  not  to  know  how  inestimable  is  the  service 


THE    PARISIANS.  449 

you  render  me.  I  am  saved  all  further  molestation  from  the 
man  who  had  indeed  no  right  over  my  freedom,  but  whose  per- 
secution might  compel  me  to  the  scandal  and  disgrace  of  an 
appeal  to  the  law  for  protection,  and  the  avowal  of  the  illegal 
marriage  into  which  I  was  duped.  I  would  rather  be  torn  limb 
from  limb  by  wild  horses,  like  the  Queen  in  the  history  books, 
than  dishonor  myself  and  the  ancestry  which  I  may  at  least 
claim  on  the  mother's  side,  by  proclaiming  that  I  had  lived 
with  that  low  Englishman  as  his  wife,  when  I  was  only — Oh 
heavens,  I  cannot  conclude  the  sentence ! 

"  No,  Mons.  le  Marquis,  I  am  in  no  want  of  the  pecuniary 
aid  you  so  generously  wish  to  press  on  me.  Though  I  know 
not  where  to  address  my  poor  dear  uncle  ;  though  I  doubt, 
even  if  I  did,  whether  I  could  venture  to  confide  to  him  the 
secret  known  only  to  yourself  as  to  the  name  I  now  bear — and 
if  he  hear  of  me  at  all  he  must  believe  me  dead — yet  I  have 
enough  left  of  the  money  he  last  remitted  to  me  for  present 
support;  and  when  that  fails,  I  think,  what  with  my  knowledge 
of  English  and  such  other  slender  accomplishments  as  I  pos- 
sess, I  could  maintain  myself  as  a  teacher  or  governess  in  some 
German  family.  At  all  events,  I  will  write  to  you  again  soon, 
and  I  entreat  you  to  let  me  know  all  you  can  learn  about  my 
uncle.  I  feel  so  grateful  to  you  for  your  just  disbelief  of  the 
horrible  calumny  which  must  be  so  intolerably  galling  to  a  man 
so  proud,  and,  whatever  his  errors,  so  incapable  of  a  baseness. 

1'  Direct  to  me  Poste  restante,  Augsburg. 

"Yours  with  all  consideration. 

a  _____  >• 

LETTER  II. 
(Seven  months  after  the  date  of  Letter  7.) 

"AUGSBURG. 

"  DEAR  M.  LE  MARQUIS  : 

"  I  thank  you  for  your  kind  little  note  informing  me  of  the 
pains  you  have  taken,  as  yet  with  no  result,  to  ascertain  what 
has  become  of  my  unfortunate  uncle.  My  life  since  I  last 
wrote  has  been  a  very  quiet  one.  I  have  been  teaching  among 
a  few  families  here  ;  and  among  my  pupils  are  two  little  girls 
of  very  high  birth.  They  have  taken  so  great  a  fancy  to  me 
that  their  mother  has  just  asked  me  to  corne  and  reside  at  their 
house  as  governess.  What  wonderfully  kind  hearts  those 
Germans  have — so  simple,  so  truthful !  They  raise  no  trouble- 
some questions  ;  accept  my  own  story  implicitly."  Here  follow 


45°  THE    PARISIANS. 

a  fe\v  commonplace  sentences  about  the  German  character, 
and  a  postscript.  "  I  go  into  my  new  home  next  week.  When 
you  hear  more  of  my  uncle,  direct  to  me  at  the  Countess  von 

Rudesheim,  Schloss  N M ,  near  Berlin." 

"Rudesheim!"  Could  this  be  the  relation,  possibly  the 
wife,  of  the  Count  von  Rudesheim  with  whom  Graham  had 
formed  acquaintance  last  year  ? 

LETTER  III. 
{Between  three  and  four  years  after  the  date  of  the  last.) 

"  You  startle  me  indeed,  dear  M.  le  Marquis.  My  uncle 
said  to  have  been  recognized  in  Algeria  under  another  name,  a 
soldier  in  the  Algerine  army?  My  dear,  proud,  luxurious 
uncle  !  Ah,  I  cannot  believe  it  any  more  than  you  do  :  but  I 
long  eagerly  for  such  further  news  as  you  can  learn  of  him. 
For  myself,  I  shall  perhaps  surprise  you  when  I  say  I  am  about 
to  be  married.  Nothing  can  exceed  the  amiable  kindness  I 
have  received  from  the  Rudesheims  since  1  have  been  in  their 
house.  For  the  last  year  especially  I  have  been  treated  on 
equal  terms  as  one  of  the  family.  Among  the  habitual  visitors 
at  the  house  is  a  gentleman  of  noble  birth,  but  not  of  rank  too 
high,  nor  of  fortune  too  great,  to  make  a  marriage  with  the 
French  widowed  governess  a  mesalliance.  I  am  sure  that  he 
loves  me  sincerely,  and  he  is  the  only  man  I  ever  met  whose 
love  I  have  cared  to  win.  We  are  to  be  married  in  the  course 
of  the  year.  Of  course  he  is  ignorant  of  my  painful  history, 

and  will  never  learn  it.  And  after  all,  Louise  D is  dead. 

In  the  home  to  which  I  am  about  to  remove,  there  is  no  prob- 
ability that  the  wretched  Englishman  can  ever  cross  my  path. 
My  secret  is  as  safe  with  you  as  in  the  grave  that  holds  her 
whom  in  the  name  of  Louise  D you  once  loved.  Hence- 
forth I  shall  trouble  you  no  more  with  my  letters  ;  but  if  you 
hear  anything  decisively  authentic  of  my  uncle's  fate,  write  me 

a  line  at  any  time,  directed  as  before  to  Madame  M , 

enclosed  to  the  Countess  von  Rudesheim. 

"  And  accept,  for  all  the  kindness  you  have  ever  shown  me, 
as  to  one  whom  you  did  not  disdain  to  call  a  kinswoman,  the 
assurance  of  my  undying  gratitude.  In  the  alliance  she  now 
makes,  your  kinswoman  does  not  discredit  the  name  through 
which  she  is  connected  with  the  yet  loftier  line  of  Rochebriant." 

To  this  letter  the  late  Marquis  had  appended  in  pencil :  "  Of 
course  a  Rochebriant  never  denies  the  claim  of  a  kinswoman, 


THE    PARISIANS."  451 

even  though  a  drawing-master's  daughter.  Beautiful  creature, 
Louise,  but  a  termagant !  I  could  not  love  Venus  if  she  were 
a  termagant.  L.'s  head  turned  by  the  unlucky  discovery  that 
her  mother  was  noble.  In  one  form  or  other,  every  woman 
has  the  same  disease — vanity.  Name  of  her  intended  not  men- 
tioned— easily  found  out." 

The  next  letter  was  dated  May  7,  1859,  on  black-edged 
paper,  and  contained  but  these  lines  :  "  I  was  much  comforted 
by  your  kind  visit  yesterday,  dear  Marquis.  My  affliction  has 
been  heavy  :  but  for  the  last  two  years  my  poor  husband's  con- 
duct has  rendered  my  life  unhappy,  and  I  am  recovering  the 
shock  of  his  sudden  death.  It  is  true  that  I  and  the  children 
are  left  very  ill  provided  for  ;  but  I  cannot  accept  your  gener- 
ous offer  of  aid.  Have  no  fear  as  to  my  future  fate.  Adieu, 
my  dear  Marquis  !  This  will  reach  you  just  before  you  start 
for  Naples.  Bon  voyage."  There  was  no  address  on  this  note, 
no  postmark  on  the  envelope — evidently  sent  by  hand. 

The  last  note,  dated  1861,  March  20,  was  briefer  than  its 
predecessor.  "  I  have  taken  your  advice,  dear  Marquis  ;  and 
overcoming  all  scruples,  I  have  accepted  his  kind  offer,  on  the 
condition  that  I  am  never  to  be  taken  to  England.  I  had  no 
option  in  this  marriage.  I  can  now  own  to  you  that  my  pov- 
erty had  become  urgent.  Yours,  with  inalienable  gratitude, 


This  last  note,  too,  was  without  postmark,  and  as  evidently 
sent  by  hand. 

"  There  are  no  other  letters,  then,  from  this  writer  ?"  asked 
Graham  ;  "  and  no  further  clue  as  to  her  existence  ? " 

"  None  that  I  have  discovered ;  and  I  see  now  why  I  pre- 
served these  letters.  There  is  nothing  in  their  contents  not 
creditable  to  my  poor  father.  They  show  how  capable  he 
was  of  good-natured,  disinterested  kindness  towards  even  a 
distant  relation  of  whom  he  could  certainly  not  have  been 
proud,  judging  not  only  by  his  own  pencilled  note,  or  by  the 
writer's  condition  as  a  governess,  but  by  her  loose  sentiments 
as  to  the  marriage  tie.  I  have  not  the  slightest  idea  who  she 
could  be.  I  never  at  least  heard  of  one  connected,  however 
distantly,  with  my  family,  whom  I  could  identify  with  the 
writer  of  these  letters." 

"  I  may  hold  them  a  short  time  in  my  possession  ?  " 

"  Pardon  me  a  preliminary  question.  If  I  may  venture  to 
form  a  conjecture,  the  object  of  your  search  must  be  connected 
with  your  countryman,  whom  the  lady  politely  calls  the 


452  THE    PARISIANS. 

'wretched  Englishman';  but  I  own  I  should  not  like  to  lend, 
through  these  letters,  a  pretence  to  any  steps  that  may  lead  to 
a  scandal  in  which  my  father's  name  or  that  of  any  member  of 
my  family  could  be  mixed  up." 

"  Marquis,  it  is  to  prevent  the  possibility  of  all  scandal  that 
I  ask  you  to  trust  these  letters  to  my  discretion." 

"  Foi  de  gentilhomme  ?  " 

"  Foi  de  gentilhomme  !  " 

"  Take  them.     When  and  where  shall  we  meet  again  ?" 

"  Soon,  I  trust  ;  but  I  must  leave  Paris  this  evening.  I  am 
bound  to  Berlin  in  quest  of  this  Countess  von  Rudesheim  : 
and  I  fear  that  in  a  very  few  days  intercourse  between  France 
and  the  German  frontier  will  be  closed  upon  travellers." 

After  a  few  more  words  not  worth  recording,  the  two  young 
men  shook  hands  and  parted. 


CHAPTER   V. 

IT  was  with  an  interest  languid  and  listless  indeed,  compared 
with  that  which  he  would  have  felt  a  day  before,  that  Graham 
mused  over  the  remarkable  advances  toward  the  discovery 
of  Louise  Duval  which  were  made  in  the  letters  he  had 
perused.  She  had  married,  then,  first  a  foreigner,  whom  she 
spoke  of  as  noble,  and  whose  name  and  residence  could  be 
easily  found  through  the  Countess  von  Rudesheim.  The  mar- 
riage did  not  seem  to  have  been  a  happy  one.  Left  a  widow 
in  reduced  circumstances,  she  had  married  again,  evidently 
without  affection.  She  was  living  so  late  as  1861,  and  she  had 
children  living  in  1859  :  was  the  child  referred  to  by  Richard 
King  one  of  them? 

The  tone  and  style  of  the  letters  served  to  throw  some  light 
on  the  character  of  the  writer;  they  evinced  pride,  stubborn 
self-will,  and  unamiable  hardness  of  nature  ;  but  her  rejection 
of  all  pecuniary  aid  from  a  man  like  the  late  Marquis  de  Roche- 
briant  betokened  a  certain  dignity  of  sentiment.  She  was  evi- 
dently, whatever  her  strange  ideas  about  her  first  marriage  with 
Richard  King,  no  vulgar  woman  of  gallantry  ;  and  there  must 
have  been  some  sort  of  charm  about  her  to  have  excited  a 
friendly  interest  in  a  kinsman  .so  remote,  and  a  man  of  pleasure 
so  selfish,  as  her  high-born  correspondent. 

But  what  now,  so  far  as  concerned  his  own  happiness,  was 
the  hope,  the  probable  certainty,  of  a  speedy  fulfilment  of  the 
trust  bequeathed  to  him  ?  AVhether  the  result,  in  the  death  of 


THE    PARISIANS.  453 

the  mother,  and  more  especially  of  the  child,  left  him  rich,  or, 
if  the  last  survived,  reduced  his  fortune  to  a  modest  independ- 
ence, Isaura  was  equally  lost  to  him,  and  fortune  became  val- 
ueless. But  his  first  emotions  on  recovering  from  the  shock 
of  hearing  from  Isaura's  lips  that  she  was  irrevocably  affianced 
to  another,  were  not  those  of  self-reproach.  They  were  those 
of  intense  bitterness  against  her  who,  if  really  so  much  attached 
to  him  as  he  had  been  led  to  hope,  could  within  so  brief  a  time 
reconcile  her  heart  to  marriage  with  anotlier.  This  bitterness 
was  no  doubt  unjust ;  but  I  believe  it  to  be  natural  to  men  of  a 
nature  so  proud  and  of  affections  so  intense  as  Graham's, 
under  similar  defeats  of  hope.  Resentment  is  the  first  impulse 
in  a  man  loving  with  the  whole  ardor  of  his  soul,  rejected,  no 
matter  why  or  wherefore,  by  the  woman  by  whom  he  had  cause 
to  believe  he  himself  was  beloved;  and  though  Graham's  stand- 
ard of  honor  was  certainly  the  reverse  of  low.  yet  man  does 
not  view  honor  in  tlie  same  light  as  woman  does,  when 
involved  in  analogous  difficulties  of  position.  Graham  consci- 
entiously thought  that  if  Isaura  so  loved  him  as  to  render  dis- 
tasteful an  engagement  to  another  which  could  only  very 
recently  have  been  contracted,  it  would  be  more  honorable 
frankly  so  to  tell  the  accepted  suitor  than  to  leave  him  in 
ignorance  that  her  heart  was  estranged.  But  these  engagements 
are  very  solemn  things  with  girls  like  Isaura,  and  hers  was  no 
ordinary  obligation  of  woman-honor.  Had  the  accepted  one 
been  superior  in  rank,  fortune — all  that  flatters  the  ambition  of 
woman  in  the  choice  of  marriage  ;  had  he  been  resolute  and 
strong,  and  self-dependent  amid  the  trials  and  perils  of  life — 
then  possibly  the  woman's  honor  might  find  excuse  in  escaping 
the  penalties  of  its  pledge.  But  the  poor,  ailing,  infirm,  mor- 
bid boy-poet,  who  looked  to  her  as  his  saving  angel  in  body, 
in  mind,  and  soul — to  say  to  him,  "  Give  me  back  my  freedom," 
would  be  to  abandon  him  to  death  and  to  sin.  But  Graham 
could  not  of  course  divine  why  what  he  as  a  man  thought  right 
was  to  Isaura  as  woman  impossible  :  and  he  returned  to  his 
old  prejudiced  notion  that  there  is  no  real  depth  and  ardor  of 
affection  for  human  lovers  in  the  poetess  whose  mind  and  heart 
are  devoted  to  the  creation  of  imaginary  heroes.  Absorbed  in 
revery,  he  took  his  way  slowly  and  with  downcast  looks 
towards  the  British  Embassy,  at  which  it  was  well  to  ascertain 
whether  the  impending  war  yet  necessitated  special  passports 
for  Germany. 

"Bon  jour,  cher  ami"  said  a  pleasant  voice  ;  "And  how  lorn-' 
have  you  been  at  Paris  ?  " 


454  THE    PARISIANS. 

"Oh,  my  dear  M.  Savarin  !  charmed  to  see  you  looking  so 
well !  Madame  well  too,  I  trust  ?  My  kindest  regards  to  her. 
I  have  been  in  Paris  but  a  day  or  two,  and  I  leave  this  even- 
ing." 

"  So  soon  ?  The  war  frightens  you  away,  I  suppose.  Which 
way  are  you  going  now  ?  " 

"  To  the  British  Embassy." 

"Well,  I  will  go  with  you  so  far  ;  it  is  in  my  own  direction 
I  have  to  call  at  the  charming  Italian's  with  congratulations — 
on  news  I  only  heard  this  morning." 

"  You  mean  Mademoiselle  Cicogna — and  the  news  that 
demands  congratulations — her  approaching  marriage  !  " 

"  Mon  Dieu  !  when  could  you  have  heard  of  that?' 

"Last  night  at  the  house  of  M.  Duplessis." 

"  Par  bleu!  I  shall  scold  her  well  for  confiding  to  her  new 
friend  Valerie  the  secret  she  kept  from  her  old  friends,  my 
wife  and  myself." 

"By  the  way,"  said  Graham,  with  a  tone  of  admirably  feigned 
indifference,  "  who  is  the  happy  man  ?  That  part  of  the  secret 
I  did  not  hear." 

"  Can't  you  guess  ? " 

"  No." 

"  Gustave  Rameau." 

"  Ah  !  "  Graham  almost  shrieked,  so  sharp  and  shrill  was  his 
cry.  "  Ah  !  I  ought  indeed  to  have  guessed  that !  " 

"  Madame  Savarin,  I  fancy,  helped  to  make  up  the  marriage. 
I  hope  it  may  turn  out  well  ;  certainly  it  will  be  his  salvation. 
May  it  be  for  her  happiness  !  " 

"  No  doubt  of  that  !  Two  poets — born  for  each  other,  I 
dare  say.  Adieu,  my  dear  Savarin  !  Here  we  are  at  the 
embassy." 

CHAPTER  VI. 

THAT  evening  Graham  found  himself  in  the  coup6  of  thf 
express  train  to  Strasbourg.  He  had  sent  to  engage  the  whol* 
coupe"  to  himself,  but  that  was  impossible.  One  place  \va° 

bespoken  as  far  as  C ,  after  which  Graham  might  prosecute 

his  journey  alone  on  paying  for  the  three  places. 

When  he  took  his  seat  another  man  was  in  the  further  cor- 
ner whom  he  scarcely  noticed.  The  train  shot  rapidly  on  for 
some  leagues.  Profound  silence  in  the  coupe,  save  at  moments 
those  heavy,  impatient  sighs  that  came  from  the  very  depths 
of  the  heart,  and  of  which  he  who  sighs  is  unconscious,  burst 


THE    PARISIANS.  455 

from   the  Englishman's   lips,  and  drew   on   him  the  observant 
side-glance  of  his  fellow-traveller. 

At  length  the  fellow-traveller  said  in  very  good  English, 
though  with  French  accent  :  "  Would  you  object,  sir,  to  my 
lighting  my  little  carriage-lantern  ?  I  am  in  the  habit  of  read- 
ing in  the  night  train,  and  the  wretched  lamp  they  give  us  does 
not  permit  that.  But  if  you  wish  to  sleep,  and  my  lantern 
would  prevent  you  doing  so,  consider  my  request  unasked." 

"  You  are  most  courteous,  sir.  Pray  light  your  lantern — that 
will  not  interfere  with  my  sleep." 

,  As  Graham  thus  answered,  far  away  from  the  place  and  the 
moment  as  his  thoughts  were,  it  yet  faintly  struck  him  that  he 
had  heard  that  voice  before. 

The  man  produced  a  small  lantern,  which  he  attached  to  the 
window-sill,  and  drew  forth  from  a  small  leathern  bag  sundry 
newspapers  and  pamphlets.  Graham  flung  himself  back,  and 
in  a  minute  or  so  again  came  his  sigh.  "  Allow  me  to  offer 
you  those  evening  journals — you  may  not  have  had  time  to 
read  them  before  starting,"  said  the  fellow-traveller,  leaning 
forw  :rd,  and  extending  the  newspapers  with  one  hand,  while 
with  the  other  he  lifted  his  lantern.  Graham  turned,  and  the 
faces  of  the  two  men  were  close  to  each  other — Graham  with 
his  travelling  cap  drawn  over  his  brows,  the  other  with  head 
uncovered. 

<!  Monsieur  Lebeau  !  " 

"  Bon  soir,  Mr.  Lamb  !  " 

Again  silence  for  a  moment  or  so.  Monsieur  Lebeau  then 
broke  it  : 

"  I  think,  Mr.  Lamb,  that  in  better  society  than  that  of  the 
Faubourg  Montmartre  you  are  known  under  another  name." 
„     Graham    had   no  heart  then  for   the   stage-play   of  a   part, 
and  answered,  with  quiet  haughtiness  :  "  Possibly — and  what 
name  ?  " 

"  Graham  Vane.  And,  sir,"  continued  Lebeau,  with  a 
haughtiness  equally  quiet,  but  somewhat  more  menacing,  "since 
we  two  gentlemen  find  ourselves  thus  close,  do  I  ask  too  much 
if  I  inquire  why  you  condescend  to  seek  my  acquaintance  in. 
disguise  ?  " 

"  Monsieur  le  Vicomte  de  Mauleon,  when  you  talk  of  dis- 
guise, is  it  too  much  to  inquire  why  my  acquaintance  was 
accepted  by  Monsieur  Lebeau  ?" 

"Ha!  Then  you  confess  that  it  was  Victor  de  Mauleon 
whom  you  sought  when  you  first  visited  the  Cafe"  Jean 
Jacques !  " 


456  THE   PARISIANS. 

"  Frankly  I  confess  it." 

Monsieur  Lebeau  drew  himself  back,  and  seemed  to  reflect. 

"  I  see  !  Solely  for  the  purpose  of  learning  whether  Victor 
de  Mauleon  could  give  you  any  information  about  Louise 
Duval.  Is  it  so  ?  " 

"  Monsieur  le  Vicomte,  you  say  truly." 

Again  M.  Lebeau  paused  as  if  in  reflection  ;  and  Graham, 
in  that  state  of  mind  when  a  man  who  may  most  despise  and 
detest  the  practice  of  duelling,  may  yet  feel  a  thrill  of  delight  if 
some  homicide  would  be  good  enough  to  put  him  out  of  his 
misery,  flung  aside  his  cap,  lifted  his  broad,  frank  forehead, 
and  stamped  his  boot  impatiently  as  if  to  provoke  a  quarrel. 

M.  Lebeau  lowered  his  spectacles,  and  with  those  calm,  keen, 
searching  eyes  of  his,  gazed  at  the  Englishman. 

'"  It  strikes  me,"  he  said  with  a  smile,  the  fascination  of  which 
not  even  those  faded  whiskers  could  disguise  ;  "  it  strikes  me 
that  there  are  two  ways  in  which  gentlemen  such  as  you  and  I 
are  can  converse  :  firstly,  with  reservation  and  guard  against 
each  other  ;  secondly,  with  perfect  openness.  Perhaps  of  the 
two  I  have  more  need  of  reservation  and  wary  guard  against 
any  stranger  than  you  have.  Allow  me  to  propose  the  alter- 
native— perfect  openness.  What  say  you  ?  "  and  he  extended 
his  hand. 

"  Perfect  openness,"  answered  Graham,  softened  into  sudden 
liking  for  this  once  terrible  swordsman,  and  shaking,  as  an 
Englishman  shakes,  the  hand  held  out  to  him  in  peace  by  the 
man  from  whom  he  had  anticipated  quarrel. 

"  Permit  me  now,  before  you  address  any  questions  to  me,  to 
put  one  to  you.  How  did  you  learn  that  Victor  de  Mauleon 
was  identical  with  Jean  Lebeau  ? " 

"  I  heard  that  from  an  agent  of  the  police." 

"  Ah  !  " 

"Whom  I  consulted  as  to  the  means  of  ascertaining  whether 
Louise  Duval  was  alive — if  so,  where  she  could  be  found." 

"  I  thank  you  very  much  for  your  information.  I  had  no 
notion  that  the  police  of  Paris  had  divined  the  original  alias 
of  poor  Monsieur  Lebeau,  though  something  occurred  at  Lyons 
which  made  me  suspect  it.  Strange  that  the  government 
knowing  through  the  police  that  Victor  de  Mauleon,  a  writer 
they  had  no  reason  to  favor,  had  been  in  so  humble  a  position, 
should  never,  even  in  their  official  journals,  have  thought  it 
prudent  to  say  so  !  But,  now  I  think  of  it,  what  if  they  had  ? 
They  could  prove  nothing  against  Jean  Lebeau.  They  could 
but  say,  '  Jean  Lebeau  is  suspected  to  be  too  warm  a  lover  of 


THE    PARISIANS.  457 

liberty,  too  earnest  a  friend  of  the  people,  and  Jean  Lebeau  is 
the  editor  of  Le  Sens  Commun.'  Why  that  assertion  would 
have  made  Victor  de  Mauleon  the  hero  of  the  Reds,  the  last 
thing  a  prudent  government  could  desire.  I  thank  you  cor- 
dially for  your  frank  reply.  Now,  what  question  would  you 
put  to  me  ?  " 

''In  one  word,  all  you  can  tell  me  about  Louise  Duval." 
"  You  shall  have  it.  I  had  heard  vaguely  in  my  young  days 
that  a  half-sister  of  mine  by  my  father's  first  marriage  with 
Mademoiselle  de  Beauvilliers  had — when  in  advanced  middle 
life  he  married  a  second  time — conceived  a  dislike  for  her 
mother-in-law,  and,  being  of  age,  with  an  independent  fortune 
of  her  own,  had  quitted  the  house,  taken  up  her  residence  with 
*in  elderly  female  relative,  and  there  had  contracted  a  marriage 
with  a  man  who  gave  her  lessons  in  drawing.  After  that  mar- 
riage, which  my  father  in  vain  tried  to  prevent,  my  sister  was 
renounced  by  her  family.  That  was  all  I  knew  till,  after  I 
came  into  my  inheritance  by  the  death  of  both  my  parents,  I 
learned  from  my  father's  confidential  lawyer,  that  the  drawing- 
ing-master,  M.  Duval,  had  soon  dissipated  his  wife's  fortune, 
become  a  widower  with  one  child,  a  girl,  and  fallen  into  great 
distress.  He  came  to  my  father,  begging  for  pecuniary  aid. 
My  father,  though  by  no  means  rich,  consented  to  allow  him  a 
yearly  pension,  on  condition  that  he  never  revealed  to  his  child 
her  connection  with  our  family.  The  man  agreed  to  the  con- 
dition, and  called  at  my  father's  lawyer  quarterly  for  his  an- 
nuity. But  the  lawyer  informed  me  that  this  deduction  from 
my  income  had  ceased  ;  that  M.  Duval  had  not  for  a  year 
called  or  sent  for  the  sum  due  to  him,  and  that  he  must  there- 
fore be  dead.  One  day  my  valet  informed  me  that  a  young 
lady  wished  to  see  me — in  those  days  young  ladies  very  often 
called  on  me.  I  desired  her  to  be  shown  in.  There  entered  a 
young  creature,  almost  of  my  own  age,  who,  to  my  amazement, 
saluted  me  as  uncle.  This  was  the  child  of  my  half-sister. 
Her  father  had  been  dead  several  months,  fulfilling  very  faith- 
fully the  condition  on  which  he  had  held  his  pension,  and  the 
girl  never  dreaming  of  the  claims  that,  if  wise,  poor  child,  she 
ought  rjot  to  have  cared  for,  viz.,  to  that  obsolete,  useless  pauper 
birthright,  a  branch  on  the  family  tree  of  a  French  noble.  But 
in  pinch  of  circumstance,  and  from  female  curiosity,  hunting 
among  the  papers  her  father  had  left  for  some  clue  to  the  reason 
for  the  pension  he  had  received,  she  found  letters  from  her 
mother,  letters  from  my  father,  which  indisputably  proved  that 
she  was  grandchild  to  the/w  Vicomte  de  Mauleon,  and  niece  to 


458  THE    PARISIANS. 

myself.  Her  story  as  told  to  me  was  very  pitiable.  Conceiving 
herself  to  be  nothing  higher  in  birth  than  daughter  to  this 
drawing-master,  at  his  death,  poor,  penniless  orphan  that  she 
was,  she  had  accepted  the  hand  of  an  English  student  of  medi- 
cine whom  she  did  not  care  for.  Miserable  with  this  man,  on 
finding  by  the  documents  I  refer  to  that  she  was  my  niece,  she 
came  to  me  for  comfort  and  counsel.  What  counsel  could 
I  or  any  man  give  to  her  but  to  make  the  best  of  what  had 
happened,  and  live  with  her  husband?  But  then  she  started 
another  question.  It  seems  that  she  had  been  talking  with 
some  one,  I  think  her  landlady,  or  some  other  woman  with 
whom  she  had  made  acquaintance — was  she  legally  married  to 
this  man?  Had  he  not  entrapped  her  ignorance  into  a  false 
marriage?  This  became  a  grave  question,  and  I  sent  at  once- 
to  my  lawyer.  On  hearing  the  circumstances,  he  at  once  de- 
clared that  the  marriage  was  not  legal  according  to  the  laws  of 
France.  But,  doubtless,  her  English  soi-disant  husband  was  not 
cognizant  of  the  French  law,  and  a  legal  marriage  could  with  his 
assent  be  at  once  solemnized.  Monsieur  Vane,  I  cannot  find 
words  to  convey  to  you  the  joy  that  poor  girl  showed  in  her  face 
and  in  her  words  when  she  learned  that  she  was  not  bound  to 
pass  her  life  with  that  man  as  his  wife.  It  was  in  vain  to  talk 
and  reason  with  her.  Then  arose  the  other  question,  scarcely 
less  important.  True,  the  marriage  was  not  legal,  but  would  it 
not  be  better  on  all  accounts  to  take  steps  to  have  it  formally 
annulled,  thus  freeing  her  from  the  harassment  of  any  claim  the 
Englishman  might  advance,  and  enabling  her  to  establish  the 
facts  in  a  right  position,  not  injurious  to  her  honor  in  the  eyes 
of  any  future  suitor  to  her  hand  ?  She  would  not  hear  of  such 
a  proposal.  She  declared  that  she  could  not  bring  to  the 
family  she  pined  to  re-enter  the  scandal  of  disgrace.  To 
allow  that  she  had  made  such  a  mesalliance  would  be  bad 
enough  in  itself ;  but  to  proclaim  to  the  world  that,  though 
nominally  the  wife,  she  had  in  fact  been  only  the  mistress,  of 
this  medical  student — she  would  rather  throw  herself  into  the 
Seine.  All  she  desired  was  to  find  some  refuge,  some  hiding- 
place  for  a  time,  where  she  could  write  to  the  man  informing 
him  that  he  had  no  lawful  hold  on  her.  Doubtless  he  would 
not  seek  then  to  molest  her.  He  would  return  to  his  own 
country,  and  be  effaced  from  her  life.  And  then,  her  story 
unknown,  she  might  form  a  more  suitable  alliance.  Fiery 
young  creature  though  she  was — true  De  Mauleon  in  being  so 
fiery — she  interested  me  strongly.  I  should  say  that  she  was 
wonderfully  handsome  ;  and  though  imperfectly  educated,  and 


THE    PARISIANS.  459 

brought  up  in  circumstances  so  lowly,  there  was  nothing  com- 
mon about  her — a  certain  je  tie  sais  quoi  of  stateliness  and  race. 
At  all  events  she  did  with  me  what  she  wished.  I  agreed  to 
aid  her  desire  of  a  refuge  and  hiding-place.  Of  course  I  could 
not  lodge  her  in  my  own  apartment,  but  I  induced  a  female 
relation  of  her  mother's,  an  old  lady  living  at  Versailles,  to 
receive  her,  stating  her  birth,  but  of  course  concealing  her 
illegal  marriage. 

"From  time  to  time  I  went  to  see  her.  But  one  day  I  found 
this  restless,  bright-plumaged  bird  flown.  Among  the  ladies 
who  visited  at  her  relative's  house  was  a  certain  Madame 
Marigny,  a  very  pretty  young  widow.  Madame  Marigny  and 
Louise  formed  a  sudden  and  intimate  friendship.  The  widow 
was  moving  from  Versailles  into  an  apartment  at  Paris,  and 
invited  Louise  to  share  it.  She  had  consented.  I  was  not 
pleased  at  this  ;  for  the  widow  was  too  young,  and  too  much  of 
a  coquette,  to  be  a  safe  companion  to  Louise.  But  though 
professing-much  gratitude  and  great  regard  for  me,  I  had  no 
power  of  controlling  the  poor  girl's  actions.  Her  nominal  hus- 
band, meanwhile,  had  left  France,  and  nothing  more  was  heard 
or  known  of  him.  I  saw  that  the  best  thing  that  could  possi- 
bly befall  Louise  was  marriage  with  some  one  rich  enough  to 
gratify  her  taste  for  luxury  and  pomp  ;  and  that  if  such  a  mar- 
riage offered  itself,  she  might  be  induced  to  free  it  from  all 
possible  embarrassment  by  procuring  the  annulment  of  the 
former,  from  which  she  had  Hitherto  shrunk  in  such  revolt. 
This  opportunity  presented  itself.  A  man  already  rich,  and  in 
a  career  that  promised  to  make  him  infinitely  richer,  an  asso- 
ciate of  mine  in  those  days  when  I  was  rapidly  squandering 
the  remnant  of  my  inheritance — this  man  saw  her  at  the  opera 
in  company  with  Madame  Marigny,  fell  violently  in  love  with 
her,  and  ascertaining  her  relationship  to  me,  besought  an  intro- 
duction. I  was  delighted  to  give  it  ;  and,  to  say  the  truth,  I 
was  then  so  reduced  to  the  bottom  of  my  casket,  I  felt  that  it 
was  becoming  impossible  for  me  to  continue  the  aid  I  had 
hitherto  given  to  Louise,  and  what  then  would  become  of  her? 
i  thought  it  fair  to  tell  Louvier — " 

"  Louvier — the  financier  ?  " 

"  Ah,  that  was  a  slip  of  the  tongue,  but  no  matter  ;  there  is 
no  reason  for  concealing  his  name.  I  thought  it  right,  I  say, 
to  tell  Louvier  confidentially  the  history  of  the  unfortunate 
illegal  marriage.  It  did  not  damp  his  ardor.  He  wooed  her 
to  the  best  of  his  power,  but  she  evidently  took  him  into  great 
dislike,  One  day  she  sent  for  me  in  much  exeitenient, showed. 


460  THE    PARISIANS. 

me  some  advertisements  in  the  French  journals  which,  though 
not  naming  her,  evidently  pointed  at  her,  and  must  have  been 
dictated  by  her  so-disant  husband.  The  advertisements  might 
certainly  lead  to  her  discovery  if  she  remained  in  Paris.  She 
entreated  my  consent  to  remove  elsewhere.  Madame  Marigny 
had  her  own  reason  for  leaving  Paris,  and  would  accompany 
her.  I  supplied  her  with  the  necessary  means,  and  a  day  or  two 
afterwards  she  and  her  friend  departed,  as  I  understood,  for 
Brussels'.  I  received  no  letter  from  her  ;  and  my  own  affairs 
so  seriously  pre-occupied  me,  that  poor  Louise  might  have  passed 
altogether  out  of  my  thoughts,  had  it  not  been  for  the  suitor 
she  had  left  in  despair  behind.  Louvier  besought  me  to  ascer- 
tain her  address  ;  but  I  could  give  him  no  other  clue  to  it  than 
that  she  said  she  was  going  to  Brussels,  but  should  soon  remove 
to  some  quiet  village.  It  was  not  a  long  time — I  can't  remem- 
ber how  long — it  might  be  several  weeks,  perhaps  two  or  three 
months — that  I  received  a  short  note  from  her  stating  that  she 
waited  for  a  small  remittance,  the  last  she  would  accept  from 
me  ;  as  she  was  resolved,  so  soon  as  her  health  would  permit, 
to  find  means  to  maintain  herself,  and  telling  me  to  direct  to  her, 
foste  rcstante,  Aix-la-Chapelle.  I  sent  her  the  sum  she  asked, 
perhaps  a  little  more,  but  with  a  confession  reluctantly  wrung 
from  me  that  I  was  a  ruined  man  ;  and  I  urged  her  to  think 
very  seriously  before  she  refused  the  competence  and  position 
which  a  union  with  M.  Louvier  would  insure. 

"  This  last  consideration  so  pressed  on  me  that,  when  Lou- 
vier called  on  me,  I  think  that  day  or  the  next,  I  gave  him 
Louise's  note,  and  told  him  that,  if  he  were  still  as  much  in  love 
with  her  as  ever,  les  absens  out  toujours  tort,  and  he  had  better 
go  to  Aix-la-Chapelle  and  find  her  out ;  that  he  had  my  hearty 
approval  of  his  wooing,  and  consent  to  his  marriage,  though 
I  still  urged  the  wisdom  and  fairness,  if  she  would  take  the 
preliminary  step — which,  after  all,  the  French  laws  frees  as 
much  as  possible  from  pain  and  scandal — of  annulling  the  irreg- 
ular marriage  into  which  her  childlike  youth  had  been  decoyed. 

"  Louvier  left  me  for  Aix-la-Chapelle.  The  very  next  day 
came  that  cruel  affliction  which  made  me  a  prey  to  the  most 
intolerable  calumny,  which  robbed  me  of  every  friend,  which 
sent  me  forth  from  my  native  country  penniless,  and  resolved 
to  be  nameless — until — until — well,  until  my  hour  could  come 
again — every  dog,  if  not  hanged,  has  its  day  ;  when  that  afflic- 
tion befell  me,  I  quitted  France,  heard  no  more  of  Louvier  nor 
of  Louise  ;  indeed,  no  letter  addressed  tp  me  at;  Paris  would 
have  reached.-— " 


PARISIANS.  461 

The  man  paused  here,  evidently  with  painful  emotion.  He 
resumed  in  the  quiet,  matter-of-fact  way  in  which  he  had  com- 
menced his  narrative. 

"  Louise  had  altogether  faded  out  of  my  remembrance  until 
your  question  revived  it.  As  it  happened,  the  question  came 
at  the  moment  when  I  meditated  resuming  my  real  name  and 
social  position.  In  so  doing,  I  should,  of  course,  come  in  con- 
tact with  my  old  acquaintance  Louvier  ;  and  the  name  of  Louise 
was  necessarily  associated  with  his.  1  called  on  him,  and  made 
myself  known.  The  slight  information  I  gave  you  as  to  my 
niece  was  gleaned  from  him.  I  may  now  say  more.  It  appears 
that  when  he  arrived  at  Aix-la-Chapelle  he  found  that  Louise 
Duval  had  left  it  a  day  or  two  previously,  and  according  to 
scandal  had  been  for  some  time  courted  by  a  wealthy  and  noble 
lover,  whom  she  had  gone  to  Munich  to  meet.  Louvier 
believed  this  tale;  quitted  Aix  indignantly,  and  never  heard  more 
of  her.  The  probability  is,  M.  Vane,  that  she  must  have  been 
long  dead.  But  if  living  still,  I  feel  quite  sure  that  she  will 
communicate  with  me  some  day  or  other.  Now  that  I  have 
reappeared  in  Paris  in  my  own  name — entered  into  a  career  that, 
for  good  or  for  evil,  must  ere  long  bring  my  name  very  noisily 
before  the  public — Louise  cannot  fail  to  hear  of  my  existence 
and  my  whereabouts  ;  and  unless  I  am  utterly  mistaken  as  to 
her  character,  she  will  assuredly  inform  me  of  her  own.  Oblige 
me  with  your  address,"  and  in  that  case  I  will  let  you  know.  Of 
course  I  take  for  granted  the  assurance  you  gave  me  last  year, 
that  you  only  desire  to  discover  her  in  order  to  render  her  some 
benefit,  not  to  injure  or  molest  her?  " 

"  Certainly.  To  that  assurance  I  pledge  my  honor.  Any 
letter  with  which  you  may  favor  me  had  better  be  directed  to 
my  London  address  ;  here  is  my  card.  But,  M.  le  Vicomte, 
there  is  one  point  on  which  pray  pardon  me  if  I  question  you 
still.  Had  you  no  suspicion  that  there  was  one  reason  why 
this  lady  might  have  quitted  Paris  so  hastily,  and  have  so  shrunk 
from  the  thought  of  a  marriage  so  advantageous,  in  a  worldly 
point  of  view,  as  that  with  M.  Louvier,  namely,  that  she  antici- 
pated the  probability  of  becoming  the  mother  of  a  child  by  the 
man  whom  she  refused  to  acknowledge  as  a  husband  ?  " 

"  That  idea  did  not  strike  me  until  you  asked  me  if  she  had 
a  child.  Should  your  conjecture  be  correct,  it  would  obviously 
increase  her  repugnance  to  apply  for  the  annulment  of  her 
illegal  marriage.  But  if  Louise  is  still  living  and  comes  across 
me,  I  do  not  doubt  that,  the  motives  for  concealment  no  longer 
operating,  she  will  confide  to  me  the  truth.  Since  we  have 


462  THE  PARISIANS. 

been  talking  together  thus  frankly,  I  suppose  I  rruly  {Airly  ask 
whether  I  do  not  guess  correctly  in  supposing  that  this  soi- 
disant  husband,  whose  name  I  forget — Mac — something,  per- 
haps Scotch — I  think  she  said  he  was  Ecossais — is  dead  and 
has  left  by  will  some  legacy  to  Louise  and  any  child  she  may 
have  borne  to  him  ?  " 

"  Not  exactly  so.  The  man,  as  you  say,  is  dead  ;  but  he 
bequeathed  no  legacy  to  the  lady  who  did  not  hold  herself 
married  to  him.  But  there  are  those  connected  with  him  who, 
knowing  the  history,  think  that  some  compensation  is  due  for 
the  wrong  so  unconsciously  done  to  her,  and  yet  more  to  any 
issue  of  a  marriage  not  meant  to  be  irregular  or  illegal.  Permit 
me  now  to  explain  why  I  sought  you  in  another  guise  and 
name  than  my  own.  I  could  scarcely  place  in  M.  Lebeau  the 
confidence  which  I  now  unreservedly  place  in  the  Vicomte 
de  Mauleon." 

"  Cela  va  sans  dire.  You  believed,  then,  that  calumny  about 
the  jewels  ;  you  do  not  believe  it  now  ?  " 

"  Now,  my  amazement  is,  that  any  one  who  had  known  you 
could  believe  it." 

"  Oh,  how  often,  and  with  tears  of  rage  in  my  exile,  my  wan- 
derings, have  I  asked  that  question  of  myself !  That  rage  has 
ceased  ;  and  I  have  but  one  feeling  left  for  that  credulous, 
fickle  Paris,  of  which  one  day  I  was  the  idol,  the  next  the  by- 
word. Well,  a  man  sometimes  plays  chess  more  skilfully  for 
having  been  long  a  mere  bystander.  He  understands  better 
how  to  move,  and  when  to  sacrifice  the  pieces.  Politics,  M. 
Vane,  is  the  only  exciting  game  left  to  me  at  my  years.  At 
yours,  there  is  still  that  of  love.  How  time  flies  !  We  are 
nearing  the  station  at  which  I  descend.  I  have  kinsfolk  of  my 
mother's  in  these  districts.  They  are  not  Imperialists  ;  they 
are  said  to  be  powerful  in  the  department.  But  before  I  apply 
to  them  in  my  own  name,  I  think  it  prudent  that  M.  Lebeau 
should  quietly  ascertain  what  is  their  real  strength,  and  what 
would  be  the  prospects  of  success  if  Victor  de  Mauleon  offered 
himself  as  dfyuti  at  the  next  election.  Wish  him  joy,  M. 
Vane  !  If  he  succeed,  you  will  hear  of  him  someday  crowned 
in  the  Capitol,  or  hurled  from  the  Tarpeian  rock." 

Here  the  train  stopped.  The  false  Lebeau  gathered  up  his 
papers,  readjusted  his  spectacles  and  his  bag,  descended  lightly, 
and,  pressing  Graham's  hand  as  he  paused  at  the  door,  said  : 
"Be-sure  I  will  not  forget  your  address  if  I  have  anything  to 
say.  *J3on  voyage!" 


THE    PARISIANS.  463 


CHAPTER  VII. 

GRAHAM  continued  his  journey  to  Strasbourg.  On  arriving 
there  he  felt  very  unwell.  Strong  though  his  frame  was,  the 
anguish  and  self-struggle  through  which  he  had  passed  since 
the  day  he  had  received  in  London  Mrs.  Morley's  letter,  till 
that  on  which  he  had  finally  resolved  on  his  course  of  conduct 
at  Paris,  and  the  shock  which  ha'd  annihilated  his  hopes  in 
Isaura's  rejection,  had  combined  to  exhaust  his  endurance, 
and  fever  had  already  commenced  when  he  took  his  place  in 
the  coupe.  If  there  be  a  thing  which  a  man  should  not  do 
when  his  system  is  undermined  and  his  pulse  between  90  and 
100,  it  is  to  travel  all  night  by  a  railway  express.  Neverthe- 
less, as  the  Englishman's  will  was  yet  stronger  than  his  frame, 
he  would  not  give  himself  more  than  an  hour's  rest,  and  again 
started  for  Berlin.  Long  before  he  got  to  Berlin,  the  will  failed 
him  as  well  as  the  frame.  He  was  lifted  out  of  the  carriage, 
taken  to  a  hotel  in  a  small  German  town,  and  six  hours -after- 
wards' he  was  delirious.  It  was  fortunate  for  him  that  under 
such  circumstances  plenty  of  money  and  Scott's  circular-notes 
for  some  hundreds  were  found  in  his  pocket-book,  so  that  he 
did  not  fail  to  receive  attentive  nursing  and  skilful  medical 
treatment.  There,  for  the  present,  I  must  leave  him — leave 
him  for  how  long  ?  But  any  village  apothecary  could  say  that 
fever  such  as  his  must  run  its  course.  He  was  still  in  bed, 
and  very  dimly — and  that  but  at  times — conscious,  when  the 
German  armies  were  gathering  round  the  penfold  of  Sedan. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

WHEN  the  news  of  the  disastrous  day  at  Sedan  reached  Paris, 
the  first  effect  was  that  of  timid  consternation.  There  were  a 
few  cries  of  Dfahe'ance!  fewer  still  of  Vive  la  Rfyublique  ! 
among  the  motley  crowd  ;  but  they  were  faint,  and  chiefly  by 
ragged  gamins.  A  small  body  repaired  to  Trochu  and  offered 
him  the  sceptre,  which  he  politely  declined.  A  more  impor- 
tant and  respectable  body,  for  it  comprised  the  majority  of  the 
Corps  Le'gislatif,  urged  Palikao  to  accept  the  temporary  dicta- 
torship, which  the  War  Minister  declined  with  equal  politeness. 
In  both  these  overtures  it  was  clear  that  the  impulse  of  the 
proposers  was  towards  any  form  of  government  rather  than 
republican.  The  sergens  de  ville  were  sufficient  that  day  to  put 


464  THE  i5 ARistANS. 

down  riot.     They  did  make  a  charge  on  a  mob,  which  imme- 
diately ran  away. 

The  morning  of  that  day  the  Council  of  Ten  were  summoned 
by  Lebeau — minus  only  Rameau,  who  was  still  too  unwell  to 
attend,  and  the  Belgian,  not  then  at  Paris;  but  their  place  was 
supplied  by  the  two  travelling  members,  who  had  been  absent 
from  the  meeting  before  recorded.  These  were  conspirators 
better  known  in  history  than  those  I  have  before  described  ; 
professional  conspirators  ;  personages  who  from  their  youth 
upwards  had  done  little  else  but  conspire.  Following  the 
discreet  plan  pursued  elsewhere  throughout  this  humble  work, 
I  give  their  names  other  than  they  bore.  One,  a  very  swarthy 
and  ill-favored  man,  between  forty  and  fifty,  I  call  Paul 
Grimm — by  origin  a  German,  but  by  'rearing  and  character 
French  ;  from  the  hair  on  his  head,  staring  up  rough  and  rag- 
ged as  a  bramble-bush,  to  the  soles  of  small,  narrow  feet,  shod 
with  dainty  care,  he  was  a  personal  coxcomb,  and  spent  all  he 
could  spare  on  his  dress.  A  clever  man,  not  ill-educated — a 
vehement  and  effective  speaker  at  a  club.  Vanity  and  an 
amorous  temperament  had  made  him  a  conspirator,  since  he  fan- 
cied he  interested  the  ladies  more  in  that  capacity  than  any 
other.  His  companion,  Edgar  Ferrier,  would  have  been  a 
journalist,  only  hitherto  his  opinions  had  found  no  readers  ; 
the  opinions  were  those  of  Marat.  He  rejoiced  in  thinking 
that  his  hour  for  glory,  so  long  deferred,  had  now  arrived. 
He  was  thoroughly  sincere  :  his  father  and  grandfather  had 
died  in  a  madhouse.  Both  these  men,  insignificant  in  ordi- 
nary times,  were  likely  to  become  of  terrible  importance  in  the 
crisis  of  a  revolution.  They  both  had  great  power  with  the 
elements  that  form  a  Parisian  mob.  The  instructions  given  to 
these  members  of  the  Council  by  Lebeau  were  brief  :  they 
were  summed  up  in  the  one  word,  De'chdance.  The  formidable 
nature  of  a  council  apparently  so  meanly  constituted,  became 
strikingly  evident  at  that  moment,  because  it  was  so  small  in 
number,  while  each  one  of  these  could  put  in  movement  a  large 
section  of  the  populace  ;  secondly,  because,  unlike  a  revolu- 
tionary club  or  a  numerous  association,  no  time  was  wasted  in 
idle  speeches,  and  all  were  under  the  orders  of  one  man  of 
clear  head  and  resolute  purpose  ;  and  thirdly,  and  above  all, 
because  one  man  supplied  the  treasury,  and  money  for  an 
object  desired  was  liberally  given  and  promptly  at  hand.-  The 
meeting  did  not  last  ten  minutes,  and  about  -two  hours  after- 
i  wards  its  effects  were  visible.  From  Montmartre  and  Belle- 
ville and  Montretout  poured  streams  of  ouvriers,  with  whom 


THfi    PARISIANS.  46$ 

Armand  Monnier  was  a  chief,  and  the  Medecin  des  Pauvres  an 
oracle.  Grimm  and  Ferrier  headed  other  detachments  that 
startled  the  well-dressed  idlers  on  the  Boulevards.  The  stal- 
wart figure  of  the  Pole  was  seen  on  the  Place  de  la  Concorde, 
towering  amidst  other  refugees,  amid  which  glided  the  Italian 
champion  of  humanity.  The  cry  of  De'chdance  became  louder. 
But  as  yet  there  were  only  few  cries  of  Vive  la  Re'publique ! 
Such  a  cry  was  not  on  the  orders  issued  by  Lebeau.  At  mid- 
night the  crowd  round  the  hall  of  the  Corps  Legislatif  is  large  : 
cries  of  La  De'che'ance  loud,  a  few  cries,  very  feeble,  of  Vive  la 
Rdpublique  ! 

What  followed  on  the  4th — the  marvellous  audacity  with 
which  half  a  dozen  lawyers  belonging  to  a  pitiful  minority  in  a 
Chamber  elected  by  universal  suffrage  walked  into  the  Hotel 
de  Ville  and  said,  "  The  Republic  is  established,  and  we  are  its 
government,"  history  has  told  too  recently  for  me  to  narrate. 
On  the  evening  of  the  5th  the  Council  of  Ten  met  again  :  the 
Pole  and  the  Italian  radiant ;  Grimm  and  Ferrier  much  excited 
and  rather  drunk  ;  the  Medecin  des  Pauvres  thoughtful  ;  and 
Armand  Monnier  gloomy.  A  rumor  has  spread  that  General 
Trochu,  in  accepting  the  charge  imposed  on  him,  has 
exacted  from  the  government  the  solemn  assurance  of  respect 
for  God,  and  for  the  rights  of  family  and  property.  The 
Atheist  is  very  indignant  at  the  assent  of  the  government  to 
the  first  proposition  ;  Monnier  equally  indignant  at  the  assent 
to  the  second  and  third.  What  has  that  honest  ouvrier  con- 
spired for  ?  What  has  he  suffered  for  ?  Of  late  nearly  starved 
for  ? — but  to  marry  another  man's  wife,  getting  rid  of  his  own, 
and  to  legalize  a  participation  in  the  property  of  his  employer  ; 
and  now  he  is  no  better  off  than  before.  "  There  must  be 
another  revolution,"  he  whispers  to  the  Atheist. 

"  Certainly,"  whispers  back  the  Atheist ;  "  he  who  desires  to 
better  this  world  must  destroy  all  belief  in  another." 

The  conclave  was  assembled  when  Lebeau  entered  by  the 
private  door.  He  took  his  place  at  the  head  of  the  table  ;  and, 
fixing  on  the  group  eyes  that  emitted  a  cold  gleam  through  the 
spectacles,  thus  spoke  : 

"  Messieurs,  or  Citoyens,  which  ye  will — I  no  longer  call  ye 
confreres — you  have  disobeyed  or  blundered  my  instructions. 
On  such  an  occasion  disobedience  and  blunder  are  crimes 
equally  heinous." 

Angry  murmurs. 

"  Silence  !  Do  not  add  mutiny  to  your  other  offences.  My 
instructions  were  simple  and  short.  Aid  in  the  abolition  of 


PARISIANS. 

the  Empire.  Do  not  aid  in  any  senseless  cry  for  a  Republic 
or  any  other  form  of  government.  Leave  that  to  the  Legisla- 
ture. What  have  you  done  ?  You  swelled  the  crowd  that 
invaded  the  Corps  Lfyislatif.  You,  Dombinsky,  not  even  a 
Frenchman,  dare  to  mount  the  President's  rostrum,  and  bawl 
forth  your  senseless  jargon.  You,  Edgar  Ferrier,  from  whom 
I  expected  better,  ascend  the  tribune,  and  invite  the  ruffians 
in  the  crowd  to  march  to  the  prisons  and  release  the  convicts  ; 
and  all  of  you  swell  the  mob  at  the  H6tel  de  Ville,  and  inau- 
gurate the  reign  of  folly  by  creating  an  oligarchy  of  lawyers  to 
resist  the  march  of  triumphal  armies.  ^Messieurs,  I  have  done 
with  you.  You  are  summoned  for  the  last  time  :  the  Council  is 
dissolved." 

With  these  words  Lebeau  put  on  his  hat  and  turned  to 
depart.  But  the  Pole,  who  was  seated  near  him,  sprang  to  his 
feet,  exclaiming  :  "  Traitor,  thou  shalt  not  escape  !  Comrades, 
he  wants  to  sell  us  !" 

"  I  have  a  right  to  sell  you,  at  least,  for  I  bought  you,  and  a 
very  bad  bargain  I  made,"  said  Lebeau  in  a  tone  of  withering 
sarcasm. 

"  Liar  !  "  cried  the  Pole,  and  seized  Lebeau  by  the  left 
hand,  while  with  the  right  he  drew  forth  a  revolver.  Ferrier 
and  Grimm,  shouting  "  A  bas  le  renegat!  "  would  have  rushed 
forward  in  support  of  the  Pole,  but  Monnier  thrust  himself 
between  them  and  their  intended  victim,  crying  with  a  voice 
that  dominated  their  yell:  "Back! — we  are  not  assassins." 
Before  he  had  finished  the  sentence  the  Pole  was  on  his  knees. 
With  a  vigor  which  no  one  could  ha,ve  expected  from  the 
seeming  sexagenarian,  Lebeau  had  caught  the  right  arm  of  his 
assailant,  twisted  it  back  so  mercilessly  as  almost  to  dislocate 
elbow  and  shoulderjoint.  One  barrel  of  the  revolver  dis- 
charge itself  harmlessly  against  the  opposite  wall,  and  the  pis- 
tol itself  then  fell  from  the  unnerved  hand  of  the  would-be- 
assassin  ;  and  what  with  the  pain  and  the  sudden  shock,  the 
stalwart  Dombinsky  fell  in  the  attitude  of  a  suppliant  at  the 
feet  of  his  unlooked-for  vanquisher. 

Lebeau  released  his  hold,  possessed  himself  of  the  pistol, 
pointing  the  barrels  towards  Edgar  Ferrier,  who  stood  with 
mouth  agape  and  lifted  arm  arrested,  and  said  quietly:  "Mon- 
sieur, have  the  goodness  to  open  that  window."  Ferrier 
mechanically  obeyed.  "  Now,  hireling,"  continued  Lebeau, 
addressing  the  vanquished  Pole,  "choose  between  the  door 
and  the  window."  "Go,  my  friend,"  whispered  the  Italian. 
The  Pole  did  not  utter  a  word  ;  but  rising  nimbly,  and  rubbing 


THE  PARISIANS;  467 

his  arm,  stalked  to  the  door.  There  lie  paused  a  moment  and 
said  :  "I  retire  overpowered  by  numbers,"  and  vanished. 

"Messieurs,"  resumed  Lebeau  calmly,  "I  repeat  that  the 
Council  is  dissolved.  In  fact  its  object  is  fulfilled  more  abruptly 
than  any  of  us  foresaw,  and  by  means  which  I  at  least  had 
been  too  long  out  of  Paris  to  divine  as  possible.  I  now  see 
that  every  aberration  of  reason  is  possible  to  the  Parisians. 
The  object  that  united  us  was  the  fall  of  the  Empire.  As  I 
have  always  frankly  told  you,  with  that  object  achieved,  sepa- 
ration commences.  Each  of  us  has  his  own  crotchet,  which 
differs  from  the  other  man's.  Pursue  yours  as  you  will,  I  pur- 
sue mine  ;  you  will  find  Jean  Lebeau  no  'more  in  Paris :  // 
s  efface.  Au  plaisir,  mats  pas  au  revoir." 

He  retreated  to  the  masked  door  and  disappeared. 

Marc  le  Roux,  the  porter  or  custos  of  that  ruinous  council- 
hall,  alarmed  at  the  explosion  of  the  pistol,  had  hurried  into 
the  room,  and  now  stood  unheeded  by  the  door  with  mouth 
agape,  while  Lebeau  thus  curtly  dissolved  the  assembly.  But 
when  the  president  vanished  through  the  secret  doorway,  Le 
Roux  also  retreated.  Hastily  descending  the  stairs,  he  made 
as  quickly  as  his  legs  could  carry  him  for  the  mouth  of  the 
alley  in  the  rear  of  the  house,  through  which  he  knew  that 
Lebeau  must  pass.  He  arrived,  panting  and  breathless,  in 
time  to  catch  hold  of  the  ex-president's  arm.  "Pardon,  citizen," 
stammered  he,  "  but  do  I  understand  that  you  have  sent  the 
Council  of  Ten  to  the  devil  ?" 

"  I  ?  Certainly  not,  my  good  Paul  ;  I  dismiss  them  to  go 
where  they  like.  If  they  prefer  the  direction  you  name  it  is 
their  own  choice.  I  declined  to  accompany  them,  and  I 
advise  you  not  to  do  so." 

"But,  citizen,  have  you  considered  what  is  to  become  of 
Madame?  Is  she  to  be  turned  out  of  the  lodge?  Are  my 
wages  to  stop,  and  Madame  to  be  left  without  a  crust  to  put 
into  her  soup? " 

"  Not  so  bad  as  that  ;  I  have  just  paid  the  rent  of  the 
baraque  for  three  months  in  advance,  and  there  is  your  quar- 
ter's pay,  in  advance  also.  My  kind  regards  to  Madame,  and 
tell  her  to  keep  your  skin  safe  from  the  schemes  of  these  luna* 
tics."  Thrusting  some  pieces  of  gold  into  the  hands  of  the 
porter,  Lebeau  nodded  his  adieu,  and  hastened  along  his  way, 

Absorbed  in  his  own  reflections,  he  did  not  turn  to  look 
behind.  But  if  he  had,  he  could  not  have  detected  the  dark 
form  of  the  porter,  creeping  in  the  deep  shadow  of  the  streets 
with  distant  but  watchful  footsteps. 


THE    PARISIANS. 


CHAPTER  IX, 

THE  conspirators,  when  left  by  their  president,  dispersed  in. 
deep,  not  noisy  resentment.  They  were  indeed  too  stunned 
for  loud  demonstration  ;  and  belonging  to  different  grades  of 
life,  and  entertaining  different  opinions,  their  confidence  in 
each  other  seemed  lost  now  that  the  chief  who  had  brought  and 
kept  them  together  was  withdrawn  from  their  union.  The 
Italian  and  the  Atheist  slank  away,  whispering  to  each  other. 
Grimm  reproached  Ferrier  for  deserting  Dombinsky  and  obey- 
ing Lebeau.  Fe-rrier  accused  Grimm  of  his  German  origin, 
and  hinted  at  denouncing  him  as  a  Prussian  spy.  Gaspard  le 
Noy  linked  his  arm  in  Monnier's,  and  when  they  had  gained 
the  dark  street  without,  leading  into  a  labyrinth  of  desolate 
lanes,  the  MJdecin  des  Pauvres  said  to  the  mechanic  :  "  You 
are  a  brave  fellow,  Monnier.  Lebeau  owes  you  a  good  turn. 
But  for  your  cry,  '  We  are  not  assassins,'  the  Pole  might  not 
have  been  left  without  support.  No  atmosphere  is  so  infectious 
as  that  in  which  we  breathe  the  same  air  of  revenge  :  when  the 
violence  of  one  man  puts  into  action  the  anger  or  suspicion  of 
others,  they  become  like  a  pack  of  hounds,  which  follow  the 
spring  of  the  first  hound,  whether  on  the  wild  boar  or  their  own 
master.  Even  I,  who  am  by  no  means  hot-headed,  had  my 
hand  on  my  case-knife  when  the  word  'assassin'  rebuked  and 
disarmed  me." 

"Nevertheless,"  said  Monnier  gloomily,  "I  half  repent  the 
impulse  which  made  me  interfere  to  save  that  man.  Better  he 
should  die  than  live  to  betray  the  cause  we  allowed  him  to  lead." 

"  Nay,  mon  ami,  speaking  candidly,  we  must  confess  that  he 
never  from  the  first  pretended  to  advocate  the  cause  for  which 
you  conspired.  On  the  contrary,  he  always  said  that  with  the 
fall  of  the  Empire  our  union  would  cease,  and  each  become 
free  to  choose  his  own  way  towards  his  own  after-objects." 

"Yes,"  answered  Armand  reluctantly;  "  he  said  that  to  me 
privately,  with  still  greater  plainness  than  he  said  it  to  the 
Council.  But  I  answered  as  plainly." 

"How?" 

"  I  told  him  that  the  man  who  takes  the  first  step  in  a  revo- 
lution, and  persuades  others  to  go  along  with  him,  cannot  in 
safety  stand  still  or  retreat  when  the  next  step  is  to  be  taken. 
It  is  '  en  avant  'or  '  a  la  lanterne?  So  it  shall  be  with  him.  Shall 
a  fellow-being  avail  himself  of  the  power  over  my  mind  which 
he  derives  from  superior  education  or  experience  ;  break  into 


THE    PARISIANS.  469 

wild  fragments  my  life,  heretofore  tranquil,  orderly,  happy  ; 
make  use  of  my  opinions,  which  were  then  but  harmless 
desires,  to  serve  his  own  purpose,  which  was  hostile  to  the  opin- 
ions he  roused  into  action  ;  say  to  me,  '  Give  yourself  up  to 
destroy  the  first  obstacle  in  the  way  of  securing  a  form  of 
society  which  your  inclinations  prefer,'  and  then,  that  first 
obstacle  destroyed,  cry, '  Halt  !  I  go  with  you  no  further  ;  I  will 
not  help  you  to  piece  together  the  life  I  have  induced  you  to 
shatter  ;  I  will  not  aid  you  to  substitute  for  the  society  that 
pained  you  the  society  that  would  please  ;  I  leave  you,  strug- 
gling, bewildered,  maddened,  in  the  midst  of  chaos  within  and 
without  you  !'  Shall  a  fellow-being  do  this,  and  vanish  with  a 
mocking  cry  :  'Tool !  I  have  had  enough  of  thee  ;  I  cast  thee 
aside  as  worthless  lumber?'  Ah  !  let  him  beware!  The  tool 
is  of  iron,  and  can  be  shaped  to  edge  and  point." 

The  passion  with  which  this  rough  eloquence  was  uttered, 
and  the  fierce,  sinister  expression  that  had  come  over  a  count- 
enance habitually  open  and  manly,  even  when  grave  and  stern, 
alarmed  and  startled  Le  Noy.  "  Pooh,  my  friend  !  "  he  said, 
rather  falteringly,  "  you  are  too  excited  now  to  think  justly. 
Go  home  and  kiss  your  children.  Never  do  anything  that 
may  make  them  shrink  from  their  father.  And  as  to  Lebeau, 
try  and  forget  him.  He  says  he  shall  disappear  from  Paris. 
I  believe  him.  It  is  clear  to  me  that  the  man  is  not  what  he 
seemed  to  us.  No  man  of  sixty  could  by  so  easy  a  sleight  of 
hand  have  brought  that  giant  Pole  to  his  knee.  If  Lebeau 
reappear,  it  will  be  in  some  other  form.  Did  you  notice  that  in 
the  momentary  struggle  his  flaxen  wig  got  disturbed,  and 
beneath  it  I  saw  a  dark  curl  ?  I  suspect  that  the  man  is  not 
only  younger  than  he  seemed,  but  of  higher  rank — a  conspira- 
tor, against  one  throne,  perhaps,  in  order  to  be  minister  under 
another.  There  are  such  men." 

Before  Monnier,  who  seemed  struck  by  these  conjectures, 
collected  his  thoughts  to  answer,  a  tall  man  in  the  dress  of  a 
sous-lieutenant  stopped  under  a  dim  gas-lamp,  and  catching 
sight  of  the  artisan's  face,  seized  him  by  the  hand,  exclaiming, 
"  Armand,  man  frtre!  well  met  ;  strange  times,  eh  ?  Come 
and  discuss  them  at  the  Cafe  de  Lyon  yonder  over  a  bowl  of 
punch.  I'll  stand  treat." 

"  Agreed,  dear  Charles." 

"And  if  this  Monsieur  is  a  friend  of  yours,  perhaps  he  will 
join  us." 

"  You  are  too  obliging,  Monsieur,"  answered  Le  Noy,  not 
ill-pleased  to  get  rid  of  his  excited  companion  ;  "but  it  hag 


47°  THE    PARISIANS. 

been  a  busy  day  with  me,  and  I  am  only  fit  for  bed.  Be 
abstinent  with  the  punch,  Armand.  You  are  feverish  already. 
Good-night,  Messieurs." 

The  Cafe  de  Lyon,  in  vogue  among  the  National  Guard  of 
the  quartier,  was  but  a  few  yards  off,  and  the  brothers  turned 
towards  it  arm  in  arm.  "  Who  is  the  friend  ?  "  asked  Charles  ; 
"  I  don't  remember  to  have  seen  him  with  thee  before." 

"  He  belongs  to  the  medical  craft ;  a  good  patriot  and  a 
kind  man — attends  the  poor  gratuitously.  Yes,  Charles, 
these  are  strange  times  ;  what  dost  thou'  think  will  come  of 
them  ?  " 

They  had  now  entered  the  cafe  ;  and  Charles  had  ordered 
the  .punch,  and  seated  himself  at  a  vacant  table  before  he 
replied.  "What  will  come  of  these  times  ?  I  will  tell  thee. 
National  deliverance  and  regeneration  through  the  ascendency 
of  the  National  Guard." 

"  Eh  ?     I  don't  take,"  said  Armand,  bewildered. 

"Probably  not,"  answered  Charles,  with  an  air  of  compas- 
sionate conceit ;  "thou  art  a  dreamer,  but  I  am  a  politician." 
He  tapped  his  forehead  significantly.  "  At  this  custom-house 
ideas  are  examined  before  they  are  passed." 

Armand  gazed  at  his  brother  wistfully,  and  with  a  deference 
he  rarely  manifested  towards  any  one  who  disputed  his  own 
claims  to  superior  intelligence.  Charles  was  a  few  years  older 
than  Monnier  ;  he  was  of  larger  build  ;  he  had  shaggy,  lowering 
eyebrows,  a  long,  obstinate,  upper  lip,  the  face  of  a  man  who 
was  accustomed  to  lay  down  the  law.  Inordinate  self-esteem 
often  gives  that  character  to  a  physiognomy  otherwise  com- 
monplace. Charles  passed  for  a  deep  thinker  in  his  own  set, 
which  was  a  very  different  set  from  Armand's — not  among  work- 
men but  small  shopkeepers.  He  had  risen  in  life  to  a  grade 
beyond  Armand's  ;  he  had  always  looked  to  the  main  chance, 
married  the  widow  of  a  hosier  and  glover  much  older  than  him- 
self, and  in  her  right  was  a  very  respectable  tradesman,  comfort- 
ably well  off  :  a  Liberal,  of  course,  but  a  Liberal  bourgeois,  equally 
against  those  above  him  and  those  below.  Needless  to  add  that 
he  had  no  sympathy  with  his  brother's  socialistic  opinions.  Still 
lie  loved  that  brother  as  well  as  he  could  love  any  one  except  him- 
self. And  Armand,  who  was  very  affectionate,  and  with  whom 
family  ties  were  very  strong,  returned  that  love  with  ample  inter- 
est, and  though  so  fiercely  at  war  with  the  class  to  which  Charles 
belonged,  was  secretly  proud  of  having  a  brother  who  was  of 
that  class.  So  in  England  I  have  known  the  most  violent 
antagonist  of  the  landed  aristocracy,  himself  a  cobbler,  who 


THE    PARISIANS.  471 

interrupts  a  discourse  on  the  crimes  of  the  aristocracy  by 
saying,  "Though  I  myself  descend  from  a  county  family." 

In  an  evil  day  Charles  Monnier  enrolled  in  the  National 
Guard,  had  received  promotion  in  that  patriotic  corps.  From 
that  date  he  began  to  neglect  his  shop,  to  criticise  military 
matters,  and  to  think  that  if  merit  had  fair  play  he  should  ~be 
a  Cincinnatus  or  a  Washington,  he  had  not  decided  which. 

"Yes,"  resumed  Charles,  ladling  out  the  punch,  "  thou  hast 
wit  enough  to  perceive  that  our  generals  are  imbeciles  or  trai- 
tors :  that  gredin  Bonaparte  has  sold  the  army  for  ten  millions 
of  francs  to  Bismarck,  and  I  have  no  doubt  that  Wimpffen  has 
his  share  of  the  bargain.  'M'Mahon  was  wounded  conveniently, 
and  has  his  own  terms  for  it.  The  regular  army  is  nowhere. 
Thou  wilt  see — thou  wilt  see — they  will  not  stop  the  march  of 
the  Prussians.  Trochu  will  be  obliged  to  come  to  the  National 
Guard.  Then  we  shall  say,  '  General,  give  us  our  terms,  and 
go  to  sleep.'  I  shall  be  summoned  to  the  council  of  war.  I 
•have  my  plan.  I  explain  it  ;  'tis  accepted  ;  it  succeeds.  I  am 
placed  in  supreme  command  ;  the  Prussians  are  chased  back  to 
their  sourkrout.  And  I — well — I  don't  like  to  boast,  butthoiflt 
see — thou'lt  see — what  will  happen."- 

"  And  thy  plan,  Charles — thou  hast  formed  it  already  ?  " 

"Ay,  ay, — the  really  military  genius  is  prompt,  'man  petit 
Armand — a  flash  of  the  brain.  Hark  ye  !  Let  the  Vandals 
come  to  Paris  and  invest  it.  Whatever  their  numbers  on  paper, 
I  don't  care  a. button  ;  they  can  only  have  a  few  thousands  at 
any  point  in  the  vast  circumference  of  the  capital.  Any  fool 
must  grant  that — thou  must  grant  it,  eh?  " 

"  It  seems  just." 

"  Of  course.  Well,  then  we  proceed  by  sorties  of  200,000 
men  repeated  every  other  day,  and  in  twelve  days  the  Prussians 
are  in  full  flight.*  The  country  rises  on  their  flight.;  they  are 
cut  to  pieces.  I  depose  Trochu  ;  the  National  Guard  elects 
the  Saviour  of  France.  I  have  a  place  in  my  eye  for  thee. 
Thou  are  superb  as  a  decorator — thou  shall  be  Minister  des 
Beaux  Arts.  But  keep  clear  of  the  canaille.  No  more  strikes 
then — thou  wilt  be  an  employer — respect  thy  future  order." 

Armand  smiled  mournfully.  Though  of  intellect  which,  had 
it  been  disciplined,  was  far  superior  to  his  brother's,  it  was  so 

*  Charles  Monnier  seems  to  have  indiscreetly  blabbed  out  his  "  idea,"  for  it  was  plagiar- 
ized afterwards  at  a  meeting  of  the  National  Guards  in  the  Salle  de  la  Bourse  by  Citizen 
Rochebrune  (slain  igth  January,  1871,  in  the  affair  of  MontretoutV  The  plan,  which 
he  developed  nearly  in  the  same  words  as  Charles  Monnier,  was  received  with  lively 
applause  ;  and  at  the  close  of  his  speech  it  was  proposed  to  name  at  orK5e  Citizen  Roche- 
brune, General  of  the  National  Guard,  an  honor,  wh:ch,  unhappily  for  his  country,  the 
^itjzen  had  lh?  modesty  to  decline, 


472  THE    PARISIANS. 

estranged  from  practical  opinions,  so  warped,  so  heated,  so 
flawed  and  cracked  in  parts,  that  he  did  not  see  the  ridicule  of 
Charles's  braggadocio.  Charles  had  succeeded  in  life,  Armand 
had  failed  ;  and  Armand  believed  in  the  worldly  wisdom  of  the 
elder  born.  But  he  was  far  too  sincere  for  any  bribe  to  tempt 
him  to  forsake  his  creed  and  betray  his  opinions.  And  he 
knew  that  it  must  be  a  very  different  revolution  from  that 
which  his  brother  contemplated  that  could  allow  him  to  marry 
another  man's  wife,  and  his  "  order  "  to  confiscate  other  people's 
property. 

"  Don't  talk  of  strikes,  Charles.  What  is  done  is  done.  I 
was  led  into  heading  a  strike,  not  on  my  own  account,  for  I 
was  well  paid  and  well  off,  but  for  the  sake  of  my  fellow-work- 
men. I  may  regret  now  what  1  did,  for  the  sake  of  Marie  and 
the  little  ones.  But  it  is  an  affair  of  honor,  and  I  cannot  with- 
draw from  the  cause  till  my  order,  as  thou  namest  my  class, 
has  its  rights." 

"  Bah  !  thou  wilt  think  better  of  it  when  thou  art  an 
employer.  Thou  hast  suffered  enough  already.  Remember  that 
I  warned  thee  again'st  that  old  fellow  in  spectacles  whom  I  met 
once  at  thy  house.  I  told  thee  he  would  lead  thee  into  mis- 
chief, and  then  leave  thee  to  get  out  of  it.  I  saw  through  him. 
I  have  a  head.  Va  !  " 

"  Thou  wert  a  true  prophet — he  has  duped  me.  But  in 
moving  me  he  has  set  others  in  movement ;  and  I  suspect  he 
will  find  he  has  duped  himself.  Time  will  show." 

Here  the  brothers  were  joined  by  some  loungers  belonging 
to  the  National  Guard.  The  talk  became  general,  the  pota- 
tions large.  Towards  daybreak  Armand  reeled  home,  drunk 
for  the  first  time  in  his  life.  He  was  one  of  those  whom  drink 
makes  violent.  Marie  had  been  sitting  up  for  him,  alarmed  at 
his  lengthened  absence.  But  when  she  would  have  thrown  her- 
self on  his  breast,  her  pale  face  and  her  passionate  sobs  en- 
raged him.  He  flung  her  aside  roughly.  From  that  night  the 
man's  nature  was  changed.  If,  as  a  physiognomist  has  said, 
each  man  has  in  him  a  portion  of  the  wild  beast,  which  is  sup- 
pressed by  mild  civilizing  circumstances,  and  comes  uppermost 
when  self-control  is  lost,  the  nature  of  many  an  honest  work- 
man, humane  and  tender-hearted  as  the  best  of  us,  commenced 
a  change  into  the  wild  beast,  that  raged  through  the  civil  war 
of  the  Communists,  on  the  day  when  half  a  dozen  Incapables, 
with  no  more  claim  to  represent  the  people  of  Paris  than  half 
a  dozen  monkeys  would  have,  were  allowed  to  elect  themselves 
to  supreme  power,  and  in  the.  very  fact  of  that  election  released 


,      THE   PARISIANS.  473 

all  the  elements  of  passion,  and  destroyed  all  the  bulwarks  of 
order. 

CHAPTER  X. 

No  man  perhaps  had  more  earnestly  sought  and  more  passion- 
ately striven  for  the  fall  of  the  Empire  than  Victor  de  Mauleon  ; 
and  perhaps  no  man  was  more  dissatisfied  and  disappointed  by 
the  immediate  consequences  of  that  fall.  In  first  conspir- 
ing against  the  Empire,  he  had  naturally  enough,  in  common 
with  all  the  more  intelligent  enemies  of  the  dynasty,  presumed 
that  its  fate  would  be  worked  out  by  the  normal  effect  of  civil 
causes — the  alienation  of  the  educated  classes,  the  discontent 
of  the  artisans,  the  eloquence  of  the  press  and  of  popular  meet- 
ings, strengthened  in  proportion  as  the  Emperor  had  been  com- 
pelled to  relax  the  former  checks  upon  the  license  of  either. 
And  De  Mauleon  had  no  less  naturally  concluded  that  there 
would  be  time  given  for  the  preparation  of  a  legitimate  and 
rational  form  of  government  to  succeed  that  which  was  destroyed. 
For,  as  has  been  hinted  or  implied,  this  remarkable  man  was  not 
merely  an  instigator  of  revolution  through  the  Secret  Council,  and 
the  turbulent  agencies  set  in  movement  through  the  lower  strata 
of  society  ;  he  was  also  in  confidential  communication  with 
men  eminent  for  wealth,  station,  and  political  repute,  from 
whom  he  obtained  the  funds  necessary  for  the  darker  purposes 
of  conspiracy,  into  the  elaboration  of  which  they  did  not  in- 
quire ;  and  these  men,  though  belonging  like  himself  to  the 
Liberal  party,  were  no  hot-blooded  democrats.  Most  of  them 
were  in  favor  of  constitutional  monarchy  ;  all  of  them  for  forms 
of  government  very  different  from  any  republic  in  which  social- 
ists or  communists  could  find  themselves  uppermost.  Among 
these  politicians  were  persons  ambitious  and  noble,  who,  in 
scheming  for  the  fall  of  the  Empire,  had  been  prepared  to  un- 
dertake the  task  of  conducting  to  ends  compatible  with  modern 
civilization  the  revolution  they  were  willing  to  allow  a  mob  at 
Paris  to  commence.  The  opening  of  the  war  necessarily  sus- 
pended their  designs.  How  completely  the  events  of  the  4th  Sep- 
tember mocked  the  calculations  of  their  ablest  minds,  and  para- 
lyzed the  action  of  their  most  energetic  spirits,  will  appear  in  the 
conversation  I  am  about  to  record.  It  takes  place  between 
Victor  de  Mauleon  and  the  personage  to  whom  he  had  addressed 
the  letter  written  on  the  night  before  the  interview  with  Lou- 
vier,  in  which  Victor  had  announced  his  intention  of  reappear- 
ing in  Paris  in  his  proper  name  and  rank.  I  shall  designate 


474  THE   PARISIANS. 

the  correspondent  as  vaguely  as  possible  ;  let  me  call  him 
the  Incognito.  He  may  yet  play  so  considerable  a  part  in 
the  history  of  France  as  a  potent  representative  of  the  political 
philosophy  of  De  Tocqueville — that  is,  of  Liberal  principles 
incompatible  with  the  absolute  power  either  of  a  sovereign  or  a 
populace,  and  resolutely  opposed  to  experiments  on  the  found- 
ations of  civilized  society — that  it  would  be  unfair  to  himself 
and  his  partisans,  if,  in  a  work  like  this,  a  word  were  said 
that  could  lead  malignant  conjecture  to  his  identity  with 
any  special  chief  of  the  opinions  of  which  I  here  present  him 
only  as  a  type. 

The  Incognito,  entering  Victor's  apartment : 

"  My  dear  friend,  even  if  I  had  not  received  your  telegram, 
I  should  have  hastened  hither  on  the  news  of  this  astounding 
revolution.  It  is  only  in  Paris  that  such  a  tragedy  could  be 
followed  by  such  a  farce.  You  were  on  the  spot — a  spectator. 
Explain  it  if  you  can." 

DE  MAULEON. — "I  was  more  than  a  spectator ;  I  was  an 
actor.  Hiss  me — I  deserve  it.  When  the  terrible  news  from 
Sedan  reached  Paris,  in  the  midst  of  the  general  stun  and  be- 
wilderment I  noticed  a  hesitating  timidity  among  all  those  who 
had  wares  in  their  shops  and  a  good  coat  on  their  backs.  They 
feared  that  to  proclaim  the  Empire  defunct  would  be  to  install 
the  Red  Republic  with  all  its  paroxysm  of  impulsive  rage  and 
all  its  theories  of  wholesale  confiscation.  But  since  it  was 
impossible  for  the  object  we  had  in  view  to  let  slip  the  occasion 
of  deposing  the  dynasty  which  stood  in  its  way,  it  was  necessary 
to  lose  no  time  in  using  the  revolutionary  part  of  the  populace 
for  that  purpose.  I  assisted  in  doing  so  ;  my  excuse  is  this  : 
that  in  a  time  of  crisis  a  man  of  action  must  go  straight  to  his 
immediate  object,  and  in  so  doing  employ  the  instruments  at  his 
command.  I  made,  however,  one  error  in  judgment  which 
admits  of  no  excuse  ;  I  relied  on  all  I  had  heard,  and  all  I  had 
observed,  of  the  character  of  Trochu,  and  I  was  deceived,  in 
common,  I  believe,  with  all  his  admirers,  and  three  parts  of  the 
educated  classes  of  Paris." 

INCOGNITO. — "I  should  have  been  equally  deceived  !  Tro- 
chu's  conduct  is  a  riddle  that  I  doubt  if  he  himself  can  ever 
solve.  He  was  master  of  the  position  ;  he  had  the  military 
force  in  his  hands  if  he  combined  with  Palikao,  which,  whatevei 
the  jealousies  between  the  two,  it  was  his  absolute  duty  to  do. 
He  had  a  great  prestige — ' 

DE  MAULEON. — "  And  for  the  moment  a  still  greater  popular- 
ity. His  ipse  dixit  could  have  determined  the  wavering  and 


THE   PARISIANS.  47$ 

confused  spirits  of  the  population.  I  was  prepared  for  his 
abandonment  of  the  Emperor,  even  of  the  Empress  and  the 
Regency.  But  how  could  I  imagine  that  he,  the  man  of  moder- 
ate politics,  of  Orleanistic  leanings,  the  clever  writer,  the  fine 
talker,  the  chivalrous  soldier,  the  religious  Breton,  could 
abandon  everything  that  was  legal,  everything  that  could  save 
France  against  the  enemy,  and  Paris  against  civil  discord  ;  that 
he  would  connive  at  the  annihilation  of  the  Senate,  of  the 
popular  Assembly,  of  every  form  of  government  that  could  be 
recognized  as  legitimate  at  home  or  abroad,  accept  service  under 
men  whose  doctrines  were  opposed  to  all  his  antecedents,  all 
his  professed  opinion,  and  inaugurate  a  chaos  under  the  name 
of  a  Republic  !  " 

INCOGNITO. — "How,  indeed?  How,  suppose  that  the  Na- 
tional Assembly,  just  elected  by  a  majority  of  seven  millions 
and  a  half,  could  be  hurried  into  a  conjuring-box,  and  reappear 
as  the  travesty  of  a  Venetian  oligarchy,  composed  of  half  a 
dozen  of  its  most  unpopular  members  !  The  sole  excuse  for 
Trochu  is,  that  he  deemed  all  other  considerations  insignificant 
compared  with  the  defence  of  Paris,  and  the  united  action  of 
the  nation  against  the  invaders.  But  if  that  were  his  honest 
desire  in  siding  vrHh  this  monstrous  usurpation  of  power,  he  did 
everything  by  which  the  desire  could  be  frustrated.  Had  there 
been  any  provisional  body  composed  of  men  known  and 
esteemed,  elected  by  the  Chambers,  suported  by  Trochu  and  the 
troops  at  his  back,  there  would  have  been  a  rallying-point 
for  the  patriotism  of  the  provinces  ;  and  in  the  wise  suspense 
of  any  constitution  to  succeed  that  government  until  the  enemy 
were  chased  from  the  field,  all  partisans — Imperialists,  Legit- 
imists, Orleanists,  Republicans — would  have  equally  adjourned 
their  differences.  But  a  democratic  Republic,  proclaimed  by 
a  Parisian  mob  for  a  nation  in  which  sincere  democratic  Re- 
publicans are  a  handful,  in  contempt  of  "5n  Assembly  chosen  by 
the  country  at  large  ;  headed  by  men  in  whom  the  provinces 
have  no  trust,  and  for  whom  their  own  representatives  are  vio- 
lently cashiered — can  you  conceive  such  a  combination  of  wet 
blankets  suplied  by  the  irony  of  fate  for  the  extinction  of  every 
spark  of  ardor  in  the  population  from  which  armies  are  to  be 
gathered  in  haste,  at  the  beck  of  usurpers  they  distrust  and 
despise?  Paris  has  excelled  itself  in  folly.  Hungering  for 
peace,  it  proclaims  a  government  which  has  no  legal  power  to 
treat  for  it.  Shrieking  out  for  allies  among  the  monarchies,  it 
annihilates  the  hope  of  obtaining  them  ;  its  sole  chance  of 
escape  from  siege,  famine,  and  bombardment,  is  in  the  im- 


476  THE   PARISIANS. 

mediate  and  impassioned  sympathy  of  the  provinces  ;  and  it 
revives  all  the  grudges  which  the  provinces  have  long  sullenly 
felt  against  the  domineering  pretensions  of  the  capital,  and  in- 
vokes the  rural  populations  which  comprise  the  pith  and  sinew 
of  armies,  in  the  name  of  men  whom  I  verily  belive  they  detest 
still  more  than  they  do  the  Prussians.  Victor,  it  is  enough  to 
make  one  despair  of  his  country  !  All  beyond  the  hour  seems 
anarchy  and  ruin." 

"Not  so  !  "  exclaimed  De  Mauleon.  "  Everything  comes  to 
him  who  knows  how  to  wait.  The  Empire  is  destroyed  ;  the 
usurpation  that  follows  it  has  no  roots.  It  will  but  serve  to 
expedite  the  establishment  of  such  a  condition  as  we  have 
meditated  and  planned  :  a  constitution  adapted  to  our  age 
and  our  people,  not  based  wholly  on  untried  experiments,  tak- 
ing the  best  from  nations  that  do  not  allow  Freedom  and 
Order  to  be  the  sport  of  any  popular  breeze.  From  the 
American  Republic  we  must  borrow  the  only  safeguards 
against  the  fickleness  of  the  universal  suffrage  which,  though 
it  was  madness  to  concede  in  any  ancient  community,  once 
conceded  cannot  be  safely  abolished,  viz.,  the  salutary  law  that 
no  article  of  the  Constilution,once  settled,  can  be  altered  without 
the  consent  of  two-thirds  of  the  legislative  body.  By  this  law 
we  ensure  permanence,  and  that  concomitant  love  for  institu- 
tions which  is  engendered  by  time  and  custom.  Secondly, 
the  formation  of  a  senate  on  such  principles  as  may  secure  to 
it  in  all  times  of  danger  a  confidence  and  respect  which  coun- 
teract in  public  opinion  the  rashness  and  heat  of  the  popular 
assembly.  On  what  principles  that  senate  should  be  formed, 
with  what  functions  invested,  what  share  of  the  executive, 
especially  in  foreign  affairs,  declarations  of  war,  or  treaties  of 
peace,  should  be  accorded  to  it,  will  no  doubt  need  the  most 
deliberate  care  of  th£  ablest  minds.  But  a  senate  I  thus 
sketch  has  alone  rescued  America  from  the  rashness  of 
counsel  incident  to  a  democratic  Chamber  ;  and  it  is  still 
more  essential  to  France,  with  still  more  favorable  elements 
for  its  creation.  From  England  we  must  borrow  the  great 
principle  that  has  alone  saved  her  from  revolution — that  the 
head  of  the  State  can  do  no  wrong.  He  leads  no  armies,  he 
presides  over  no  Cabinet.  All  responsibility  rests  with  his 
advisers  ;  and  where  we  upset  a  dynasty,  England  changes  an 
administration.  Whether  the  head  of  the  State  should  have 
the  title  of  sovereign  or  president,  whether  he  be  hereditary  or 
elected,  is  a  question  of  minor  importance  impossible  now  tt 
determine,  but  on  which  I  heartily  concur  with  you  that  hered 


THE    PARISIANS.  477 

itary  monarchy  is  infinitely  better  adapted  to  the  habits  of 
Frenchmen,  to  their  love  of  show  and  of  honors,  and  infinitely 
more  preservative  from  all  th>  dangers  which  result  from  con- 
stant elections  to  such  a  dignity,  with  parties  so  heated,  and 
pretenders  to  the  rank  so  numerous,  than  any  principle  by 
which  a  popular  demagogue  or  a  successful  general  is  enabled 
to  destroy  the  institutions  he  is  elected  to  guard.  On  these 
fundamental  doctrines  for  the  regeneration  of  France  I  think 
we  are  agreed.  And  I  believe  when  the  moment  arrives  to 
promulgate  them,  through  an  expounder  of  weight  like  your- 
self, they  will  rapidly  commend  themselves  to  the  intellect  of 
France.  For  they  belong  to  common-sense  ;  and  in  the  ul- 
timate prevalence  of  common-sense  I  have  a  faith  which  I 
refuse  to  mediaevalists  who  would  restore  the  right  divine  ; 
and  still  more  to  fanatical  quacks,  who  imagine  that  the  wor- 
ship of  the  Deity,  the  ties  of  family,  and  the  rights  of  prop- 
erty are  errors  at  variance  with  the  progress  of  society.  Qui 
vivra,  verra." 

INCOGNITO. — "  In  the  outlines  of  the  policy  you  so  ably 
enunciate,  I  heartily  concur.  But  if  France  is,  I  will  not  say 
to  be  regenerated,  but  to*  have  fair  play  among  the  nations  of 
Europe,  I  add  one  or  two  items  to  the  programme.  France 
must  be  saved  from  Paris,  not  by  subterranean  barracks  and 
trains,  the  impotence  of  which  we  see  to-day  with  a  general  in 
command  of  the  military  force,  but  by  conceding  to  France  its 
proportionate  share  of  the  power  now  monopolized  by  Paris. 
All  this  system  of  centralization,  equally  tyrannical  and  cor- 
rupt, must  be  eradicated.  Talk  of  examples  from  America,  of 
which  I  know  little — from  England,  of  which  I  know  much — 
what  can  we  more  advantageously  borrow  from  England  than 
that  diffusion  of  all  her  moral  and  social  power  which  forbids 
the  congestion  of  blood  in  one  vital  part  ?  Decentralize  ! 
decentralize  !  decentralize  !  will  be  my  incessant  cry,  if  ever  the 
time  comes  when  my  cry  will  be  heard.  France  can  never  be 
a  genuine  France  until  Paris  has  no  more  influence  over  the 
destinies  of  France  than  London  has  over  those  of  England. 
But  on  this  theme  I  could  go  on  till  midnight.  Now  to  the 
immediate  point:  what  do  you  advise  me  to  do  in  this  crisis, 
and  what  do  you  propose  to  do  yourself  ? " 

De  Mauleon  put  his  hand  to  his  brow,  and  remained  a  few 
moments  silent  and  thoughtful.  At  last  he  looked  up  with 
that  decided  expression  of  face  which  was  not  the  least  among 
his  many  attributes  for  influence  over  those  with  whom  he  came 
into  contact. 


47o  THE    PARISIANS. 

"  For  you,  on  whom  so  much  of  the  future  depends,  my  advice 
is  brief — have  nothing  to  do  with  the  present.  All  who  join 
this  present  mockery  of  a  government  will  share  the  fall  that 
attends  it — a  fall  from  which  one  or  two  of  their  body  may 
possibly  recover  by  casting  blame  on  their  confreres  ;  you 
never  could.  But  it  is  not  for  you  to  oppose  that  government 
with  an  enemy  on  its  march  to  Paris.  You  are  not  a  soldier  ; 
military  command  is  not  in  your  rdle.  The  issue  of  events  is 
uncertain  ;  but  whatever  it  be,  the  men  in  power  cannot  con- 
duct a  prosperous  war  nor  obtain  an  honorable  peace.  Here- 
after you  may  be  the  Deus  ex  machind.  No  personage  of  that 
rank  and  with  that  mission  appears  till  the  end  of  the  play  :  we 
are  only  in  the  first  act.  Leave  Paris  at  once  and  abstain  from 
all  action." 

INCOGNITO  (dejectedly). — "  I  cannot  deny  the  soundness  of 
your  advice,  though  in  accepting  it  I  feel  unutterably  sad- 
dened. Still  you,  the  calmest  and  shrewdest  observer  among 
my  friends,  think  there  is  cause  for  hope,  not  despair.  Victor, 
I  have  more  than  most  men  to  make  life  pleasant,  but  I  would 
lay  down  life  at  this  moment  with  you.  You  know  me  well 
enough  to  be  sure  that  I  utter  no  melodramatic  fiction  when  I 
say  that  I  love  my  country  as  a  young  man  loves  the  ideal  of 
his  dreams,  with  my  whole  mind  and  heart  and  soul !  and  the 
thought  that  I  cannot  now  aid  her  in  the  hour  of  her  mortal 
trial  is — is — " 

The  man's  voice  broke  down,  and  he  turned  aside,  veiling  his 
face  with  a  hand  that  trembled. 

DE  MAULEON. — "Courage!  Patience!  All  Frenchmen  have 
the  first ;  set  them  an  example  they  much  need  in  the  second. 
I,  too,  love  my  country,  though  I  owe  to  it  little  enough,  Heav- 
en knows.  I  suppose  love  of  country  is  inherent  in  all  who  are 
not  Internationalists.  They  profess  only  to  love  humanity,  by 
which,  if  they  mean  anything  practical,  they  mean  a  rise  in 
wages." 

INCOGNITO  (rousing  himself,  and  with  a  half-smile). — "Always 
cynical,  Victor;  always  belying  yourself.  But  now  that  you 
have  advised  my  course,  what  will  be  your  own  ?  Accompany 
me,  and  wait  for  better  times." 

"  No,  noble  friend  ;  our  positions  are  different.  Yours  is 
made,  mine  yet  to  make.  But  for  this  war  I  think  I  could 
have  secured  a  seat  in  the  Chamber.  As  I  wrote  you,  I  found 
that  my  kinsfolk  were  of  much  influence  in  their  department, 
and  that  my  restitution  to  my  social  grade,  and  the  repute  I 
had  made  as  an  Orleanist,  inclined  them  to  forget  my  youthful 


THE    PARISIANS.  479 

errors  and  to  assist  my  career.  But  the  Chamber  ceases  to 
exist.  My  journal  I  shall  drop.  I  cannot  support  the  govern- 
ment ;  it  is  not  a  moment  to  oppose  it.  My  prudent  course  is 
silence." 

INCOGNITO. — "  But  is  not  your  journal  essential  to  your 
support  ?" 

DE  MAUL£ON. — "  Fortunately  not.  Its  profits  enabled  me 
to  lay  by  for  the  rainy  day  that  has  come  ;  and  having  reim- 
bursed you  and  all  friends  the  sums  necessary  to  start  it,  I 
stand  clear  of  all  debt,  and,  for  my  slender  wants,  a  rich  man. 
If  1  continued  the  journal  I  should  be  beggared  ;  for  there 
would  be  no  readers  to 'Common-Sense' in  this  interval  of 
lunacy.  Nevertheless,  during  this  interval,  I  trust  to  other 
ways  for  winning  a  name  that  will  open  my  rightful  path  of 
ambition  whenever  we  again  have  a  legislature  in  which  'Com- 
mon-Sense' can  be  heard." 

I  NCOGNITO. — "  But  how  win  that  name,  silenced  as  a  writer?  " 

DE  MAULEON. — "  You  forget  that  I  have  fought  in  Algeria. 
In  a  few  days  Paris  will  be  in  a  state  of  siege  ;  and  then — and 
then,"  he  added,  and  very  quietly  dilated  on  the  renown  of  a 
patriot  or  the  grave  of  a  soldier. 

"  I  envy  you  the  chance  of  either,"  said  the  Incognito  ;  and 
after  a  few  more  brief  words  he  departed,  his  hat  drawn  over 
his  brows,  and  entering  a  hired  carriage  which  he  had  left  at 
the  corner  of  the  quiet  street,  was  consigned  to  the  station 
du ,  just  in  time  for  the  next  train. 


CHAPTER  XI.      , 

VICTOR  dressed  and  went  out.  The  streets  were  crowded. 
Workmen  were  everywhere  employed  in  the  childish  operation 
of  removing  all  insignia  and  obliteratingall  names  that  showed 
where  an  Empire  had  existed.  One  greasy  citizen,  mounted  on 
a  ladder,  was  effacing  the  words  "  Boulevard  Haussman,"  and 
substituting  for  Haussman,  "  Victor  Hugo." 

Suddenly  De  Mau-leon  came  on  a  group  of  blouses,  inter- 
spersed with  women  holding  babies  and  ragged  boys  holding 
•c,tones,  collected  round  a  well-dressed,  slender  man,  ^it  whom 
they  were  gesticulating  with  menaces  of  doing  something  much 
worse.  By  an  easy  effort  of  his  strong  frame  the  Vicomte  pushed 
his  way  through  the  tormentors,  and  gave  his  arm  to  their 
intended  victim. 

"  Monsieur,  allow  me  to  walk  home  with  you." 


480  THE    PARISIANS. 

Therewith  the  shrieks  and  shouts  and  gesticulations  in- 
creased. "Another  impertinent!  Another  traitor!  Drown 
him  !  Drown  them  both  !  To  the  Seine  !  To  the  Seine  !  " 
A  burly  fellow  rushed  forward,  and  the  rest  made  a  plunging 
push.  The  outstretched  arm  of  De  Mauleon  kept  the  ring- 
leader at  bay.  "  Mes  enfans,"  cried  Victor  with  a  calm,  clear 
voice,  "  I  am  not  an  Imperialist.  Many  of  you  have  read  the 
articles  signed  Pierre  Firmin,  written  against  the  tyrant  Bona- 
parte when  he  was  at  the  height  of  his  power.  I  am  Pierre 
Firmin — make  way  for  me."  Probably  not  one  in  the  crowd 
had  ever  read  a  word  written  by  Pierre  Firmin,  nor  even  heard 
of  the  name.  But  they  did  not  like  to  own  ignorance  ;  and 
that  burly  fellow  did  not  like  to  encounter  that  arm  of  iron 
which  touched  his  throat.  So  he  cried  out,  "  Oh  !  if  you  are 
the  great  Pierre  Firmin,  that  alters  the  case.  Make  way  for 
the  patriot  Pierre."  "But,"  shrieked  a  virago,  thrusting  her 
baby  into  De  Mauleon 's  face,  "  the  other  is  the  Imperialist,  the 
capitalist,  the  vile  Dtiplessis.  At  least  we  will  have  him." 
De  Mauleon  suddenly  snatched  the  baby  from  her,  and  said, 
with  imperturbable  good  temper:  "Exchange  of  prisoners!  I 
resign  the  man,  and  I  keep  the  baby." 

No  one  who  does  not  know  the  humors  of  a  Parisian  mob 
can  comprehend  the  suddenness  of  popular  change,  or  the 
magical  mastery  over  crowds  which  is  effected  by  quiet  courage 
and  a  ready  joke.  The  group  was  appeased  at  once.  Even 
the  virago  laughed  ;  and  when  De  Mauleon  restored  the  infant 
to  her  arms,  with  a  gold  piece  thrust  into  its  tiny  clasp,  she 
eyed  the  gold,  and  cried,  "  God  bless  you,  citizen  !  "  The  two 
gentlemen  made  their  way  safely  now. 

"  M.  de  Maule'on,"  said  Duplessis,  "  I  know  not  how  to 
thank  you.  Without  your  seasonable  aid  I  should  have  been 
in  great  danger  of  life  ;.  and — would  you  believe  it  ? — the 
woman  who  denounced  and  set  the  mob  on  me  was  one  of  the 
objects  of  a  charity  which  I  weekly  dispense  to  the  poor."  . 

"Of  course  I  believe  that.  At  the  Red  clubs  no  crime  is 
more  denounced  than  that  of  charity.  It  is  the  '  fraud  against 
Egaliti,—*.  vile  trick  of  the  capitalist  to  save  to  himself  the 
millions  he  ought  to  share  with  all  by  giving  a  sou  to  one. 
MeanwhiTe,  take  my  advice,  M.  Duplessis,  and  quit  Paris  with 
your  young  daughter.  This  is  no  place  for  rich  Imperialists 
at  present." 

"  I  perceived  that  before  to-day's  adventure.  I  distrust  the 
looks  of  my  very  servants,  and  shall  depart  with  Valerie  this 
evening  for  Bretagne." 


THE    PARISIANS.  481 

"Ah  !  I  heard  from  Louvier  that  you  propose  to  pay  off  his 
mortgage  on  Rochebriant,  and  make  yourself  sole  proprietor  of 
my  young  kinsman's  property." 

"  I  trust  you  only  believe  half  what  you  hear.  I  mean  to 
save  Rochebriant  from  Louvier,  and  consign  it  free  of  charge 
to  your  kinsman,  as  the  dot  of  his  bride,  my  daughter." 

<l  I  rejoice  to  learn  such  good  news  for  the  head  of  my  house. 
But  Alain  himself — is  he  not  with  the  prisoners  of  war?  " 

"  No,  thank  Heaven.  He  went  forth  an  officer  of  a  regiment 
of  Parisian  Mobiles — went  full  of  sanguine  confidence  ,  he 
came  back  with  his  regiment  in  mournful  despondency.  The 
undiscipline  of  his  regiment,  of  the  Parisian  Mobiles  generally, 
appears  incredible.  Their  insolent  disobedience  to  their  offi- 
cers, their  ribald  scoffs  at  their  general — oh,  it  is  sickening  to 
speak  of  it  !  Alain  distinguished  himself  by  repressing  a 
mutiny,  and  is  honored  by  a  signal  compliment  from  the  com- 
mander in  a  letter  of  recommendation  to  Palikao.  But  Palikao 
is  nobody  now.  Alain  has  already  been  sent  into  Bretagne, 
commissioned  to  assist  in  organizing  a  corps  of  Mobiles  in  his 
neighborhood.  Trochu,  as  you  know,  is  a  Breton.  Alain  is 
confident  of  the  good  conduct  of  the  Bretons.  What  will 
Louvier  do  ?  He  is  an  arch  Republican  ;  is  he  pleased  now  he 
has  got  what  he  wanted  ?  " 

"  I  suppose  he  is  pleased,  for  he  is  terribly  frightened. 
Fright  is  one  of  the  great  enjoyments  of  a  Parisian.  Good- 
day.  Your  path  to  your  hotel  is  clear  now.  Remember  me 
kindly  to  Alain." 

De  Mauleon  continued  his  way  through  streets  sometimes 
deserted,  sometimes  thronged.  At  the  commencement  of  the 
Rue  St.  Florentin  he  encountered  the  brothers  Vandemar  walk- 
ing arm  in  arm. 

"  Ha,  De  Maule'on  !  "  cried  Enguerrand  ;  "  what  is  the  last 
minute's  news  ?  " 

"  I  can't  guess.  Nobody  knows  at  Paris  how  soon  one  folly 
swallows  up  another.  Saturn  here  is  always  devouring  one  or. 
other  of  his  children." 

"  They  say  that  Vinoy,  after  a  most  masterly  retreat,  is  almost 
at  our  gates  with  80,000  men." 

"  And  this  day  twelvemonth  we  may  know  what  he  does 
with  them." 

Here  Raoul,  who  seemed  absorbed  in  gloomy  reflections, 
halted  before  the  hotel  in  which  the  Comtesse  di  Rimini  lodged, 
and  with  a  nod  to  his  brother,  and  a  polite,  if  not  cordial, 
sr.lutation  to  Victor,  entered  the porte  coctere. 


482  THE   PARISIANS. 

"Your  brother  seems  out  of  spirits — a  pleasing  contrast  to 
the  uproarious  mirth  with  which  Parisians  welcome  the  ad- 
vance of  calamity." 

"Raoul,  as  you  know,  is  deeply  religious.  He  regards  the 
defeat  we  have  sustained,  and  the  peril  that  threatens  us,  as  the 
beginning  of  a  divine  chastisement,  justly  incurred  by  our  sins — 
I  mean  the  sins  of  Paris.  In  vain  my  father  reminds  him  of 
Voltaire's  story,  in  which  the  ship  goes  down  with  a  fripon  on 
board.  In  order  to  punjsh  the  fripon,  the  honest  folks  are 
drowned." 

"  Is  your  father  going  to  remain  on  board  the  ship,  and  share 
the  fate  of  the  other  honest  folks  ?  " 

"  Pas  si  bete.  He  is  off  to  Dieppe  for  sea-bathing.  He  says 
that  Paris  has  grown  so  dirty  since  the  4th  September,  that  it 
is  only  fit  for  the  feet  of  the  unwashed.  He  wished  my  mother 
to  accompany  him  ;  but  she  replies  :  '  No  ;  there  are  already 
too  many  wounded  not  to  need  plenty  of  nurses.'  She  is  assist- 
ing to  inaugurate  a  society  of  ladies  in  aid  of  the  Smirs  de 
Charite".  Like  Raoul,  she  is  devout,  but  she  has  not  his  super- 
stitions. Still  his  superstitions  are  the  natural  reaction  of  a 
singularly  earnest  and  pure  nature  from  the  frivolity  and  cor- 
ruption which,  when  kneaded  well  up  together  with  a  slice  of 
sarcasm,  Paris  calls  philosophy." 

"And  what,  my  dear  Enguerrand,  do  you  propose  to  do  ?" 

"  That  depends  on  whether  we  are  really  besieged.  If  so,  of 
course  I  become  a  soldier." 

"I  hope  not  a  National  Guard  ?" 

"  I  care  not  in  what  name  I  fight,  so  that  I  fight  for  France." 

As  Enguerrand  said  these  simple  words,  his  whole  counte- 
nance changed.  The  crest  rose  ;  the  eyes  sparkled  ;  the  fair 
and  delicate  beauty  which  had  made  him  the  darling  of  women  ; 
the  joyous  sweetness  of  expression  and  dainty  grace  of  high 
breeding  which  made  him  the  most  popular  companion  to  men  ; 
were  exalted  in  a  masculine  nobleness  of  aspect,  from  which  a 
painter  might  have  taken  hints  fora  study  of  the  young  Achilles 
separated  forever  from  effeminate  companionship  at  the  sight 
of  the  weapons  of  war.  De  Mauleon  gazed  on  him  admiringly. 
We  have  seen  that  he  shared  the  sentiments  uttered,  had 
resolved  on  the  same  course  of  action.  But  it  was  with  the  tenv 
pered  warmth  of  a  man  who  seeks  to  divest  his  thoughts  and 
his  purpose  of  the  ardor  of  romance,  and  who,  in  serving  his 
country,  calculates  on  the  gains  to  his  own  ambition.  Never- 
theless he  admired  in  Enguerrand  the  image  of  his  own  impul- 
sive and  fiery  youth. 


THE    PARISIANS.  .  483 

"And  you,  I  presume,"  resumed  Enguerrand,  "will  fight, 
too,  but  rather  with  pen  than  with  sword." 

"  Pens  will  now  only  be  dipped  in  red  ink,  and  common- 
sense  never  writes  in  that  color  ;  as  for  the  sword,  I  have 
passed  the  age  of  forty-five,  at  which  military  service  halts. 
But  if  some  experience  in  active  service,  some  knowledge  of 
the  art  by  which  soldiers  are  disciplined  and  led,  will  be  deemed 
sufficient  title  to  a  post  of  command,  however  modest  the 
grade  be,  I  shall  not  be  wanting  among  'the  defenders  of 
Paris." 

"  My  brave  dear  Vicomte,  if  you  are  past  the  age  to  serve, 
you  are  in  the  ripest  age  to  command  ;  and  with  the  testimo- 
nials and  the  cross  you  won  in  Algeria,  your  application  for 
employment  will  be  received  with  gratitude  by  any  general  so 
able  as  Trochu." 

"  I  don't  know  whether  I  shall  apply  to  Trochu.  I  would 
rather  be  elected  to  command  even  by  the  Mobiles  or  the 
National  Guard,  of  whom  I  have  just  spoken  disparagingly  ; 
and  no  doubt  both  corps  will  soon  claim  and  win  the  right  to 
choose  their  officers.  But  if  elected,  no  matter  by  whom, 
I  shall  make  a  preliminary  condition  ;  the  men  under  me  shall 
train,  and  drill,  and  obey — soldiers  of  a  very  different  kind 
from  the  youthful  Pekins  nourished  on  absinthe  and  self-con- 
ceit, and  applauding  that  Bombastes  Furioso,  M.  Hugo,  when 
he  assures  the  enemy  that  Paris  will  draw  an  idea  from  its 
scabbard.  But  here  comes  Savarin.  Bon  jour,  my  dear  poet." 

"Don't  say  good-day.  An  evil  day  for  journalists  and 
writers  who  do  not  out-Herod  Blanqui  and  Pyat.  I  know  not 
how  I  shall  get  bread  and  cheese.  My  poor  suburban  villa  is 
to  be  pulled  down  by  way  of  securing  Paris  ;  my  journal  will 
be  suppressed  by  way  of  establishing  the  liberty  of  the  press. 
It  ventured  to  suggest  that  the  people  of  France  should  have 
some  choice  in  the  form  of  their  government." 

"  That  was  very  indiscreet,  my  poor  Savarin,"  said  Victor  ; 
"  I  wonder  your  printing-office  has  not  been  pulled  down. 
We  are  now  at  the  moment  when  wise  men  hold  their  tongues." 

"  Perhaps  so.  M.  de  Mauleon.  It  might  have  been  wiser  for 
all  of  us,  you  as  well  as  myself,  if  we  had  not  allowed  our 
tongues  to  be  so  free  before  this  moment  arrived.  We  live  to 
learn  ;  and  if  we  ever  have  what  may  be  called  a  passable 
government  again,  in  which  we  may  say  pretty  much  what  we 
like,  there  is  one  thing  I  will  not  do  ;  I  will  not  undermine 
that  government  without  seeing  a  very  clear  way  to  the  govern- 
ment that  is  to  follow  it.  What  say  you,  Pierre  Finnin?" 


484  THE   PARISIANS. 

"  Frankly,  I  say  that  I  deserve  your  rebuke,"  answered  De 
Mauleon  thoughtfully.  "  But,  of  course,  you  are  going  to 
take  or  send  Madame  Savarin  out  of  Paris." 

"  Certainly.  We  have  made  a  very  pleasant  party  for  our 
hegira  this  evening — among  others  the  Morleys.  Morley  is 
terribly  disgusted.  A  Red  Republican  slapped  him  on  the 
shoulder  and  said,  'American,  we  have  a  republic  as  well  as 
you.'  '  Pretty  much  you  know  about  republics,'  growled  Mor- 
ley :  '  a  French  republic  is  as  much  like  ours  as  a  baboon  is 
like  a  man.'  On  which  the  Red  roused  the  mob,  who  dragged 
the  American  off  to  the  nearest  station  of  the  National  Guard, 
where  he  was  accused  of  being  a  Prussian  spy.  With  some 
difficulty,  and  lots  of  brag  about  the  sanctity  of  the  Stars  and 
Stripes,  he  escaped  with  a  reprimand,  and  caution  how  to 
behave  himself  in  future.  So  he  quits  a  city  in  which  there  no 
longer  exists  freedom  of  speech.  My  wife  hoped  to  induce 
Mademoiselle  Cicogna  to  accompany  us  ;  I  grieve  to  say  she 
refuses.  You  know  she  is  engaged  in  marriage  to  Gustave 
Rameau  ;  and  his  mother  dreads  the  effect  that  these  Red 
Clubs  and  his  own  vanity  may  have  upon  his  excitable  tem- 
perament if  the  influence  of  Mademoiselle  Cicogna  be  with- 
drawn." 

"  How  could  a  creature  so  exquisite  as  Isaura  Cicogna  ever 
find  fascination  in  Gustave  Rameau  !  "  exclaimed  Enguerrand. 

"A  woman  like  her,"  answered  De  Mauleon,  "  always  finds 
a  fascination  in  self-sacrifice." 

"I  think  you  divine  the  truth,"  said  Savarin,  rather  mourn- 
fully. "  But  I  must  bid  you  good-bye.  May  we  live  to  ^hake 
hands  re'unis sous  de  meilleurs  auspices" 

Here  Savarin  hurried  off,  and  the  other  two  men  strolled 
into  the  Champs  Elysees,  which  were  crowded  with  loungers, 
gay  and  careless,  as  if  there  had  been  no  disaster  at  Sedan,  no 
overthrow  of  an  empire,  no  enemy  on  its  road  to  Paris. 

In  fact  the  Parisians,  at  once  the  most  incredulous  and  the 
most  credulous  of  all  populations,  believed  that  the  Prussians 
would  never  be  so  impertinent  as  to  come  in  sight  of  the  gates. 
Something  would  occur  to  stop  them  !  The  King  had  declared 
he  did  not  war  on  Frenchmen,  but  on  the  Emperor  :  the  Em- 
peror gone,  the  war  was  over.  A  democratic  republic  was  in- 
stituted. A  horrible  thing  in  its  way,  it  is  true  ;  but  how  could 
the  Pandour  tyrant  brave  the  infection  of  democratic  doc- 
trines among  his  own  barbarian  armies?  Were  not  placards 
addressed  to  our  "German  brethren,"  posted  upon  the  walls 
of  Paris,  exhorting  the  Pandours  to  fraternize  with  their  fellow- 


THE   PARISIANS.  485 

creatures?  Was  not  Victor  Hugo  going  to  publish  "a  letter 
to  the  German  people"?  Had  not  Jules  Favre  graciously  of- 
fered peace,  with  the  assurance  that  "  France  would  not  cede 
a  stone  of  her  fortresses,  an  inch  of  her  territory.  She  would 
pardon  the  invaders,  and  not  march  upon  Berlin  ! "  To  all 
these  and  many  more  such  incontestable  proofs  that  the  idea 
of  a  siege  was  moonshine,  did  Enguerrand  and  Victor  listen  as 
they  joined  group  after  group  of  their  fellow-countrymen  :  nor 
did  Paris  cease  to  harbor  such  pleasing  illusions,  amusing 
itself  with  piously  laying  crowns  at  the  foot  of  the  statue  of 
Strasbourg,  swearing  "  they  would  be  worthy  of  their  Alsatian 
brethren,"  till  on  the  igth  of  September  the  last  telegram  was 
received,  and  Paris  was  cut  off  from  the  rest  of  the  world  by 
the  iron  line  of  the  Prussian  invaders.  "Tranquil  and  terri- 
ble," says  Victor  Hugo,  "  she  awaits  the  invasion  !  A  volcano 
needs  no  assistance." 


CHAPTER  XII. 

WE  left  Graham  Vane  slowly  recovering  from  the  attack  of 
fever  which  had  arrested  his  journey  to 'Berlin  in  quest  of  the 
Count  von  Rudesheim.  He  was,  however,  saved  from  the 
prosecution  of  that  journey,  and  his  direction  turned  back  to 
France  by  a  German  newspaper  which  informed  him  that  the 
King  of  Prussia  was  at  Rheims,  and  that  the  Count  von  Rudes- 
heim was  among  the  eminent  personages  gathered  there  around 
their  sovereign.  In  conversing  the  same  day  with  the  kindly 
doctor  who  attended  him,  Graham  ascertained  that  this  German 
noble  held  a  high  command  in  the  German  armies,  and  bore  a 
no  less  distinguished  reputation  as  a  wise  political  counsellor 
than  he  had  earned  as  a  military  chief.  As  soon  as  he  was 
able  to  travel,  and  indeed  before  the  good  doctor  sanctioned 
his  departure,  Graham  took  his  way  to  Rheims,  uncertain,  how- 
ever, whether  the  Count  would  still  be  found  there.  I  spare  the 
details  of  his  journey,  interesting  as  they  were.  On  reaching 
the  famous,  and  in  the  eyes  of  the  Legitimists  the  sacred,  city, 
the  Englishman  had  no  difficulty  in  ascertaining  the  house, 
not  far  from  the  cathedral,  in  which  the  Count  von  Rudesheim 
had  taken  his  temporary  abode.  Walking  toward  it  from  the 
small  hotel  in  which  he  had  been  lucky  enough  to  find  a  roc\r» 
disengaged — slowly,  for  he  was  still  feeble — he  was  struck  (  v 
the  quiet  conduct  of  the  German  soldiery,  and,  save  in  the'* 
appearance,  the  peaceful  aspect  of  the  streets.  Indeed  the** 


486  THE    PARISIANS. 

was  an  air  of  festive  gayety  about  the  place,  as  in  an  English 
town  in  which  some  popular  regiment  is  quartered.  The  Ger- 
man soldiers  thronged  the  shops,  buying  largely  ;  lounged  into 
the  cafes  ;  here  and  there  attempted  flirtations  with  the  grisettes, 
who  laughed  at  their  French  and  blushed  at  their  compliments  ; 
and  in  their  good-humored,  somewhat  bashful  cheeriness,  there 
was  no  trace  of  the  insolence  of  conquest. 

But  as  Graham  neared  the  precincts  of  the  cathedral  his  ear 
caught  a  grave  and  solemn  music,  which  he  at  first  supposed 
to  come  from  within  the  building.  But  as  he  paused  and 
looked  round,  he  saw  a  group  of  the  German  military,  on 
whose  stalwart  forms  and  fair,  manly,  earnest  faces  the  setting 
sun  cast  its  calm,  lingering  rays.  They  were  chanting,  in 
voices  not  loud  but  deep,  Luther's  majestic  hymn,  "  ifun 
danket  alle  Gott."  The  chant  awed  even  the  ragged  beggar 
boys  who  had  followed  the  Englishman,  as  they  followed  any 
stranger,  would  have  followed  King  William  himself,  whining 
for  alms.  "  What  a  type  of  the  difference  between  the  two 
nations  !  "  thought  Graham  ;  "  the  Marseillaise,  and  Luther's 
Hymn  !"  While  thus  meditating  and  listening,  a  man  in  a 
general's  uniform  came  slowly  out  of  the  cathedral,  with  his 
hands  clasped  behind  his  back,  and  his  head  bent  slightly  down- 
wards. He,  too,  paused  on  hearing  the  hymn  ;  then  unclasped 
his  hand  and  beckoned  to  one  of  the  officers,  to  whom  ap- 
proaching he  whispered  a  word  or  two,  and  passed  on  towards 
the  Episcopal  palace.  The  hymn  hushed,  and  the  singers 
quietly  dispersed.  Graham  divined  rightly  that  the  general 
had  thought  a  hymn  thanking  the  God  of  battles  might  wound 
the  feelings  of  the  inhabitants  of  the  vanquished  city — not, 
however,  that  any  of  them  were  likely  to  understand  the  lan- 
guage in  which  the  thanks  were  uttered.  Graham  followed 
the  measured  steps  of  the  general,  whose  hands  were  again 
clasped  behind  his  back — the  musing  habit  of  Von  Moltke,  as 
it  had  been  of  Napoleon  the  First. 

Continuing  his  way,  the  Englishman  soon  reached  the  house 
in  which  the  Count  von  Rudesheim  was  lodged,  and  sending 
in  his  card,  was  admitted  at  once  though  an  anteroom  in  which 
sate  two  young  men,  subaltern  officers,  apparently  employed 
in  draughting  maps,  into  the  presence  of  the  Count. 

"  Pardon  me,"  said  Graham,  after  the  first  conventional 
salutation,  "if  I  interrupt  you  for  a  moment  or  so  in  the  midst 
of  events  so  grave,  on  a  matter  that  must  seem  to  you  very 
trivial." 

"  Nay,"  answered  the  Count,  "  there  is  nothing  so  trivial  in 


THE    PARISIANS.  487 

this  world  but  what  there  will  be  some  one  to  whom  it  is  impor- 
tant. Say  how  I  can  serve  you." 

u  I  think,  M.  le  Comte,  that  you  once  received  in  your 
household,  as  teacher  or  governess,  a  French  lady,  Madame 
Marigny." 

"  Yes,  I  remember  her  well — a  very  handsome  woman.  My 
wife  and  daughter  took  great  interest  in  her.  She  was  married 
out  of  my  house." 

"  Exactly — -and  to  whom  ?" 

"An  Italian  of  good  birth,  who  was  then  employed  by  the 
Austrian  government  in  some  minor  post,  and  subsequently 
promoted  to  a  better  one  in  the  Italian  dominion,  which  then 
belonged  to  the  house  of  Hapsburg,  after  which  we  lost  sight 
of  him  and  his  wife." 

"  An  Italian — what  was  his  name  ?  " 

"  Ludovico  Cicogna." 

"  Cicogna  !  "  exclaimed  Graham,  turning  very  pale.  "  Are 
you  sure  that  was  the  name  ?  " 

"  Certainly.  He  was  a  cadet  of  a  very  noble  house,  and  dis- 
owned by  relations  too  patriotic  to  forgive  him  for  accepting 
employment  under  the  Austrian  government." 

"  Can  you  not  give  me  the  address  of  the  place  in  Italy  to 
which  he  was  transferred  on  leaving  Austria  ?  " 

"  No  ;  but  if  the  information  be  necessary  to  you,  it  can  be 
obtained  easily  at  Milan,  where  the  head  of  the  family  resides, 
or  indeed  in  Vienna,  through  any  ministerial  bureau." 

"  Pardon  me  one  or  two  questions  more.  Had  Madame 
Marigny  any  children  by  a  former  husband  ?  " 

"  Not  that  I  know  of  :  I  ne^-er  heard  so.  Signer  Cicogna 
was  a  widower,  and  had,  if  I  remember  right,  children  by  his 
first  wife,  who  was  also  a  Frenchwoman..  Before  he  obtained 
office  in  Austria,  he  resided,  I  believe,  in  France.  I  do  not 
remember  how  many  children  he  had  by  his  first  wife.  I  never 
saw  them.  Our  acquaintance  began  at  the  baths  of  Toplitz, 
where  he  saw  and  fell  violently  in  love  with  Madame  Marigny. 
After  their  marriage,  they  went  to  his  post,  which  was  some- 
where, I  think,  in  the  Tyrol.  We  saw  no  more  of  them  ;  but 
my  wife  and  daughter  kept  up  a  correspondence  with  the 
Signora  Cicogna  for  a  short  time.  It  ceased  altogether  when 
she  removed  into  Italy." 

"  You  do  not  even  know  if  the  Signora  is  still  living  ? " 

"No." 

"  Her  husband,  I  am  told,  is  dead." 

"  Indeed  !     I  am  concerned   to  hear  it.     A  good-looking, 


483  THE    PARISIANS. 

lively,  clever  man.  I  fear  he  must  have  lost  all  income  when 
the  Austrian  dominions  passed  to  the  house  of  Savoy." 

"  Many  thanks  for  your  information.  I  can  detain  you  no 
longer,"  said  Graham,  rising. 

"  Nay,  I  am  not  very  busy  at  this  moment ;  but  I  fear  we 
Germans  have  plenty  of  work  on -our  hands." 

"  I  had  hoped  that,  now  the  French  Emperor,  against  whom 
your  king  made  war,  was  set  aside,  his  Prussian  majesty  would 
make  peace  with  the  French  people." 

"Most  willingly  would  he  do  so  if  the  French  people  would 
let  him.  But  it  must  be  through  a  French  government 
legally  chosen  by  the  people.  And  they  have  chosen  none  ! 
A  mob  at  Paris  sets  up  a  provisional  administration,  that  com- 
mences by  declaring  that  it  will  not  give  up  '  an  inch  of  its 
territory  nor  a  stone  of  its  fortresses.'  No  terms  of  peace  can 
be  made  with  such  -«ien  holding  such  talk."  After  a  few 
words  more  over  the  state  of  public  affairs,  in  which  Graham 
expressed  the  English  side  of  affairs,  which  was  all  for  gener- 
osity to  the  vanquished  ;  and  the  Count  argued  much  more 
ably  on  the  German,  which  was  all  for  security  against  the 
aggressions  of  a  people  that  would  not  admit  itself  to  be  van- 
quished, the  short  interview  closed. 

As  Graham  at  night  pursued  his  journey*  to  Vienna,  there 
came  into  his  mind  Isaura's  song  of  the  Neapolitan  fisherman. 
Had  he,  too,  been  blind  to  the  image  on  the  rock  ?  Was  it 
possible  that  all  the  while  he  had  been  resisting  the  impulse  of 
his  heart,  until  th-e  discharge  of  the  mission  entrusted  to  him 
freed  his  choice  and  decided  his  fortunes,  the  very  person  of 
whom  he  was  in  search  had  been  before  him,  then  to  be  for- 
ever won,  lost  to  him  now  forever  ?  Could  Isaura  Cicogna  be 
the  child  of  Louise  Duval  by  Richard  King?  She  could  not 
have  been  her  child  by  Cicogna  :  the  dates  forbade  that 
hypothesis.  Isaura  must  have  been  five  years  old  when  Louise 
married  the  Italian. 

Arrived  at  Milan,  Graham  quickly  ascertained  that  the  post 
to  which  Ludovico  Cicogna  had  been  removed  was  in  Verona, 
and  that  he  had  there  died  eight  years  ago.  Nothing  was  to 
be  learned  as  to  his  family  or  his  circumstances  at  the 
time  of  his  death.  The  people  of  whose  history  we  know  the 
least  are  the  relations  we  refuse  to  acknowledge.  Graham 
continued  his  journey  to  Verona.  There  he  found  on  inquiry 
that  the  Cicognas  had  occupied  an  apartment  in  a  house 
which  stood  at  the  outskirts  of  the  town,  and  had  been  since 
pulled  down'  to  make  way  for  some  public  improvements. 


THE    PARISIANS.  489 

But  his  closest  inquiries  could  gain  him  no  satisfactory  an- 
swers to  the  all-important  questions  as  to  Ludovico  Cicogna's 
family.  His  political  alienation  from  the  Italian  cause,  which 
was  nowhere  more  ardently  espoused  than  at  Verona,  had 
rendered  him  very  unpopular.  He  visited  at  no  Italian 
houses.  Such  society  as  he  had  was  confined  to  the  Austrian 
military  within  the  Quadrilateral  or  at  Venice,  to  which  city  he 
made  frequent  excursions  :  was  said  to  lead  there  a  free  and 
gay  life,  very  displeasing  to  the  Signora,  whom  he  left  in 
Verona.  She  was  but  little  seen,  and  faintly  remembered  as 
very  handsome  and  proud-looking.  Yes,  there  were  children — 
a  girl,  and  a  boy  several  years  younger  than  the  girl  ;  but 
whether  she  was  the  child  of  the  Signora  by  a  former  marriage, 
or  whether  the  Signora  was  only  the  child's  stepmother,  no 
one  could  say.  The  usual  clue,  in  such  doubtful  matters, 
obtainable  through  servants,  was  here  missing.  The  Cicognas 
had  only  kept  two  servants,  and  both  were  Austrian  subjects, 
who  had  long  left  the  country — their  very  names  forgotten. 

Graham  now  called  to  mind  the  Englishman  Selby,  for  whom 
Isaura  had  such  grateful  affection,  as  supplying  to  her  the  place 
of  her  father.  This  must  have  been  the  Englishman  whom 
Louise  Duval  had  married  after  Cicogna's  death.  It  would  be 
no  difficult  task,  surely,  to  ascertain  where  he  had  resided. 
Easy  enough  to  ascertain  all  that  Graham  wanted  to  know 
from  Isaura  herself,  if  a  letter  could  reach  her.  But,  as  he 
knew  by  the  journals,  Paris  was  now  invested  ;  cutoff  from  all 
communication  with  the  world  beyond.  Too  irritable,  anx- 
ious, and  impatient  to  wait  for  the  close  of  the  siege,  though  he 
never  suspected  it  could  last  so  long  as  it  did,  he  hastened  to 
Venice,  and  there  learned  through  the  British  consul  that  the  late 
Mr.  Selby  was  a  learned  antiquarian,  an  accomplished  general 
scholar,  a  fanatic ~o  in  music,  a  man  of  gentle  temper  though  re- 
served manners  ;  had  at  one  time  lived  much  at  Venice  :  after 
his  marriage  with  the  Signora  Cicogna  he  had  taken  up  his 
abode  near  Florence.  To  Florence  Graham  now  went.  He 
found  the  villa  on  the  skirts  of  Fiesole  at  which  Mr.  Selby  had 
resided.  The  peasant  who  had  officiated  as  gardener  and  share- 
holder in  the  profits  of  vines  and  figs,  was  still,  with  his  wife, 
living  on  the  place.  Both  man  and  wife  remembered  the 
Inglese  well  ;  spoke  of  him  with  great  affection,  of  his  wife  with 
great  dislike.  They  said  her  manners  were  very  haughty,  her 
temper  very  violent  ;  that  she  had  led  the  Inglese  a  very  un- 
happy life  ;  that  there  were  a  girl  and  a  boy,  both  hers  by  a 
former  marriage ;  but  when  closely  questioned  whether 


49°  THE    PARISIANS. 

were  sure  that  the  girl  was  the  Signora's  child  by  the  former 
husband,  or  whether  she  was  not  the  child  of  that  husband  by 
a  former  wife,  they  could  not  tell  ;  they  could  only  say  that 
both  were  called  by  the  same  name — Cicogna  ;  that  the  boy 
was  the  Signora's  favorite  ;  that  indeed  she  seemed  wrapt  up 
in  him  ;  that  he  died  of  a  rapid  decline  a  few  months  after  Mr. 
Selby  had  hired  the  place,  and  that  shortly  after  his  death  the 
Signora  left  the  place  and  never  returned  to  it ;  that  it  was  little 
more  than  a  year  that  she  had  lived  with  her  husband  before 
this  final  separation  took  place.  The  girl  remained  with  Mr. 
Selby,  who  cherished  and  loved  her  as  his  own  child.  Her 
Christian  name  was  Isaura,  the  boy's  Luigi.  A  few  years  later 
Mr.  Selby  left  the  villa  and  went  to  Naples,  where  they 
heard  he  had  died.  They  could  give  no  information  as  to 
what  had  become  of  his  wife.  Since  the  death  of  her  boy  that 
lady  had  become  very  much  changed  ;  her  spirits  quite  broken, 
no  longer  violent.  She  would  sit  alone  and  weep  bitterly.  The 
only  person  out  of  her  family  she  would  receive  was  the  priest ; 
till  the  boy's  death  she  had  never  seen  the  priest,  nor  been 
known  to  attend  divine  service. 

"Was  the  priest  living  ?" 

"  Oh  no  ;  he  had  been  dead  two  years.  A  most  excellent 
man — a  saint,"  said  the  peasant's  wife. 

"  Good  priests  are  like  good  women,"  said  the  peasant 
drily  ;  "  there  are  plenty  of  them,  but  they  are  all  underground." 

On  which  remark  the  wife  tried  to  box  his  ears.  The  conta- 
dino  had  become  a  freethinker  since  the  accession  of  the  house 
of  Savoy.  His  wife  remained  a  good  Catholic. 

Said  the  peasant  as,  escaping  from  his  wife,  he  walked  into 
the  high  road  with  Graham,  "My  belief,  Eccellenza,  is,  that  the 
priest  did  all  the  mischief." 

"  What  mischief  ?  " 

"  Persuaded  the  Signora  to  leave  her  husband.  The  Inglese 
was  not  a  Catholic.  I  heard  the  priest  call  him  a  heretic. 
And  the  Padre,  who,  not  so  bad  as  some  of  his  cloth,  was  a 
meddling  bigot,  thought  it  perhaps  best  for  her  soul  that  H 
should  part  company  with  a  heretic's  person.  I  can't  say  for 
sure,  but  I  think  that  was  it.  The  Padre  seemed  to  triumph 
when  the  Signora  was  gone." 

Graham  mused.  The  peasant's  supposition  was  not  im- 
probable. A  woman  such  as  Louise  Duval  appeared  to  be,  of 
vehement  passions  and  ill-regulated  mind,  was  just  one  of  those 
who,  in  a  moment  of  great  sorrow,  and  estranged  from  the 
Ordinary  household  affections,  feel,  though  but  imperfectly,  the 


THE    PARISIANS.  49* 

necessity  of  a  religion,  and,  ever  in  extremes,  pass  at  once 
from  indifferentism  into  superstition. 

Arrived  at  Naples,  Graham  heard  little  of  Selby,  except  as  a 
literary  recluse,  whose  only  distraction  from  books  was  the 
operatic  stage.  But  he  heard  much  of  Isaura ;  of  the  kind- 
ness which  Madame  de  Grantmesnil  had  shown  to  her,  when 
left  by  Selby's  death  alone  in  the  world  ;  of  the  interest  which 
the  friendship  and  the  warm  eulogies  of  one  so  eminent  as  the 
great  French  writer  had  created  for  Isaura  in  the  artistic  cir- 
cles ;  of  the  intense  sensation  her  appearance,  her  voice,  her 
universal  genius  had  made  in  that  society,  and  the  brilliant 
hopes  of  her  subsequent  career  on  the  stage  the  cognoscenti  had 
formed.  No  one  knew  anything  of  her  mother  ;  no  one  enter- 
tained a  doubt  that  Isaura  was  by  birth  a  Cicogna.  Graham 
could  not  learn  the  present  whereabouts  of  Madame  de  Grant- 
mesnil. She  had  long  left  Naples,  and  had  been  last  heard  of 
at  Genoa  ;  was  supposed  to  have  returned  to  France  a  little 
before  the  war.  In  France  she  had  no  fixed  residence. 

The  simplest  mode  of  obtaining  authentic  information 
whether  Isaura  was  the  daughter  of  Ludovico  Cicogna  by  his 
first  wife,  namely,  by  registration  of  her  birth,  failed  him  ;  be- 
cause, as  Von  Rudesheim  had  said,  his  first  wife  was  a  French- 
woman. The  children  had  been  born  somewhere  in  France, 
no  one  could  even  guess  where.  No  one  had  ever  seen  the 
first  wife,  who  had  never  appeared  in  Italy,  nor  had  even  heard 
what  was  her  maiden  name. 

Graham,  meanwhile,  was  not  aware  that  Isaura  was  still  in 
the  besieged  city,  whether  or  not  already  married  to  Gustave 
Rameau  ;  so  large  a  number  of  the  women  had  quitted 
Paris  before  the  siege  began  that  he  had  reason  to  hope  she 
was  among  them.  He  heard  through  an  American,  that 
the  Morleys  had  gone  to  England  before  the  Prussian  invest- 
ment ;  perhaps  Isaura  had  gone  with  them.  He  wrote  to  Mrs. 
Morley,  enclosing  his  letter  to  the  Minister  of  the  United  States 
at  the  court  of  St.  James's,  and  while  still  at  Naples  received 
her  answer.  It  was  short  and  malignantly  bitter.  "  Both 
myself  and  Madame  Savarin,  backed  by  Signora  Venosta 
earnestly  entreated  Mademoiselle  Cicogna  to  quit  Paris,  to 
accompany  us  to  England.  Her  devotion  to  her  affianced 
husband  would  not  permit  her  to  listen  to  us.  It  is  only  an 
Englishman  who  could  suppose  Isaura  Cicogna  to  be  one  of  those 
women  who  do  not  insist  on  sharing  the  perils  of  those  they 
love.  You  ask  whether  she  was  the  daughter  of  Ludovico 
Cicogna  by  his  former  marriage,  or  of  his  second  wife  by  him.  I 


492  THE    PARISIANS. 

cannot  answer.  I  don't  even  know  whether  Signor  Cicogna 
ever  had  a  former  wife.  Isaura  Cicogna  never  spoke  to  me  of 
her  parents.  Permit  me  to  ask  what  business  is  it  of  yours 
now  ?  Is  it  the  English  pride  that  makes  you  wish  to  learn 
whether  on  both  sides  she  is  of  noble  family  ?  How  can  that 
discovery  alter  your  relations  towards  the  affianced  bride  of 
another  ? " 

On  receipt  of  this  letter,  Graham  quitted  Naples,  and  shortly 
afterwards  found  himself  at  Versailles.  He  obtained  permis- 
sion to  establish  himself  there,  though  the  English  were  by  no 
means  popular.  Thus  near  to  Isaura,  thus  sternly  separated 
from  htr,  Graham  awaited  the  close  of  the  siege.  Few  among 
those  at  Versailles  believed  that  the  Parisians  would  endure  it 
much  longer.  Surely  they  would  capitulate  before  the  bom- 
bardment, which  the  Germans  themselves  disliked  to  contem- 
plate as  a  last  resource,  could  commence. 

In  his  own  mind  Graham  was  convinced  that  Isaura  was  the 
child  of  Richard  King.  It  seemed  to  him  probable  that  Louise 
Duval,  unable  to  assign  any  real  name  to  the  daughter  of  the 
marriage  she  disowned — neither  the  name  borne  by  the  repu- 
diated husband,  nor  her  own  maiden  name — would,  on  taking 
her  daughter  to  her  new  home,  have  induced  Cicogna  to  give 
the  child  his  name,  or  that  after  Cicogna's  death  she  herself 
.had  so  designated  the  girl.  A  dispassionate  confidant,  could 
Graham  have  admitted  any  confidant  whatever,  might  have 
suggested  the  more  than  equal  probability  that  Isaura  was 
Cicogna's  daughter  by  his  former  espousal.  But  then  what 
could  have  become  of  Richard  King's  child  ?  To  part  with  the 
fortune  in  his  hands,  to  relinquish  all  the  ambitious  dreams 
which  belonged  to  it,  cost  Graham  Vane  no  pang;  but  he 
writhed  with  indignant  grief  when  he  thought  that  the  wealth 
of  Richard  King's  heiress  was  to  pass  to  the  hands  of  Gus- 
tave  Rameau  ;  that  this  was  to  be  the  end  of  his  researches — 
this  the  result  of  the  sacrifice  his  sense  of  honor  imposed  on 
him.  And  now  that  there  was  the  probability  that  he  must 
convey  to  Isaura  this  large  inheritance,  the  practical  diffi- 
culty of  inventing  some  reason  for  such  a  donation,  which  he 
had,  while  at  a  distance,  made  light  of,  became  seriously  appar- 
ent. How  could  he  say  to  Isaura  that  he  had  ^£200,000  in  trust 
for  her  without  naming  any  one  so  devising  it  ?  Still  more  how 
constitute  himself  her  guardian,  so  as  to  secure  it  to  herself  inde- 
pendently of  her  husband.  Perhaps  Isaura  was  too  infatuated 
with  Rameau,  or  too  romantically  unselfish  to  permit  the  for- 
tune so  mysteriously  conveyed  being  exclusively  appropriated 


THE    PARISIANS.  495 

to  herself.  And  if  she  were  already  married  to  Rameau,  and  if 
he  were  armed  with  the  right  to  inquire  into  the  source  of  this 
fortune,  how  exposed  to  the  risks  of  disclosure  would  become 
the  secret  Graham  sought  to  conceal.  Such  a  secret  affecting 
the  memory  of  the  sacred  dead,  affixing  a  shame  on  the  scutch- 
eon of  the  living,  in  the  irreverent  hands  of  a  Gustave 
Rameau — it  was  too  dreadful  to  contemplate  such  a  hazard. 
And  yet,  if  Isaura  were  the  missing  heiress,  could  Graham 
Vane  admit  any  excuse  for  basely  withholding  from  her,  for 
coolly  retaining  to  himself,  the  wealth  for  which  he  was  respon- 
sible? Yet,  torturing  as  were  these  communings  with  himself, 
they  were  mild  in  their  torture  compared  to  the  ever-growing 
anguish  of  the  thought  that  in  any  case  the  only  woman  he  had 
ever  loved,  ever  could  love — who  might  but  for  his  own  scruples 
and  prejudices  have  been  the  partner  of  his  life — was  perhaps 
now  actually  the  wife  of  another  and,  as  such,  in  what  terrible 
danger!  Famine  within  the  walls  of  the  doomed-city:  with- 
out, the  engines  of  death  waiting  for  a  signal.  So  near  to  her, 
and  yet  so  far  !  .So  willing  to  die  for  her,  if  for  her  he  could 
not  live :  and  with  all  his  devotion,  all  his  intellect,  all  his 
wealth,  so  powerless ! 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

IT  is  now  the  middle  of  November — a  Sunday.  The  day 
has  been  mild,  and  is  drawing  towards  its  close.  The  Paris- 
ians have  been  enjoying  the  sunshine.  Under  the  leafless 
trees  in  the  public  gardens  and  the  Champs  Elysees  children 
have  been  at  play.  On  the  Boulevards  the  old  elegance  of 
gayety  is  succeeded  by  a  livelier  animation.  Itinerant  musi- 
cians gather  round  them  ragged  groups.  Fortune-tellers  are 
in  great  request,  especially  among  the  once  brilliant  Laises 
and  Thaises,  now  looking  more  shabby,  to  whom  they  predict 
the  speedy  restoration  of  Nabobs  and  Russians,  and  golden 
joys.  Yonder  Punch  is  achieving  a  victory  over  the  Evil  One, 
who  wears  the  Prussian  spiked  helmet,  and  whose  face  has 
been  recently  beautified  into  a  resemblance  to  Bismarck. 
Punch  draws  to  his  show  a  laughing  audience  of  Moblots  and 
recruits  to  the  new  companies  of  the  National  Guard.  Mem- 
bers of  the  once  formidable  police,  now  threadbare  and  hun- 
ger-pinched, stand  side  by  side  with  unfortunate  beggars  and 
sinister-looking  patriots  who  have  served  their  time  in  the 
jails  or  galleys. 


494  THE    PARISIANS. 

Uniforms  of  all  variety  are  conspicuous — the  only  evidence 
visible  of  an  enemy  at  the  walls.  But  the  aspects  of  the  wear- 
ers of  warlike  accoutrements  are  debonnaire  and  smiling,  as 
of  revellers  on  a  holiday  of  peace.  Among  these  defenders  of 
their  country,  at  the  door  of  a  crowded  cafe,  stands  Frederic 
Lemercier,  superb  in  the  costume,  bran-new,  of  a  National 
Guard,  his  dog  Fox  tranquilly  reposing  on  its  haunches,  with 
eyes  fixed  upon  its  fellow-dog  philosophically  musing  on  the 
edge  of  Punch's  show,  whose  master  is  engaged  in  the  conquest 
of  the  Bismarck  fiend. 

"  Lemercier,"  cried  the  Vicomte  de  Breze,  approaching  the 
cafe,  "  I  scarcely  recognize  you  in  that  martial  guise.  You 
look  magnifique — the  galons  become  you.  Peste  !  an  officer 
already  ?" 

"  The  National  Guards  and  Mobiles  are  permitted  to  choose 
their  own  officers,  as  you  are  aware.  I  have  been  elected,  but 
to  subaltern  grade,  by  the  warlike  patriots  of  my  department, 
Enguerrand  de  Vandemar  is  elected  a  captain  of  the  Mobiles 
in  his,  and  Victor  de  Mauleon  is  appointed  to  the  command 
of  a  battalion  of  the  National  Guards.  But  I  soar  above 
jealousy  at  such  a  moment  : 

'  Rome  a  choisi  mon  bras  ;  je  n'examine  rien.' 

"  You  have  no  right  to  be  jealous,  De  Mauleon  has  had 
experience  and  won  distinction  in  actual  service,  and  from  all 
I  hear  is  doing  wonders  with  his  men — has  got  them  not  only 
to  keep  but  to  love  drill.  I  heard  no  less  an  authority  than 

General  V say  that  if  all  the  officers  of  the  National 

Guard  were  like  De  Mauleon,  that  body  would  give  an  exam- 
ple of  discipline  to  the  line." 

"  I  say  nothing  as  to  the  promotion  of  a  real  soldier  like  the 
Vicomte,  but  a  Parisian  dandy  like  Enguerrand  de  Vandemar  !  " 

"  You  forget  that  Enguerrand  received  a  military  educa- 
tion— an  advantage  denied  to  you." 

"  What  does  that  matter  ?  Who  cares  for  education  nowa- 
days ?  Besides,  have  I  not  been  training  ever  since  the  4th  of 
September,  to  say  nothing  of  the  hard  work  on  the  ramparts  ?" 

"  Parlez  moi  de  cela  :  it  is  indeed  hard  work  on  the  ramparts. 
Jnfandum  dolorem  quorum  pars  magna  fui.  Take  the  day 
duty.  What  with  rising  at  seven  o'clock,  and  being  drilled 
between  a  middle-aged  and  corpulent  grocer  on  one  side  and  a 
meagre,  beardless  barber's  apprentice  on  the  other  ;  what  with 
going  to  the  bastions  at  eleven,  and  "seeing  half  one's  com- 
panions drunk  before  twelve  •  what  with  trying  to  keep  their 


THE  PARISIANS.  495 

fists  off  one's  face  when  one  politely  asks  them  not  to  call 
one's  general  a  traitor  or  a  poltroon — the  work  of  the  ramparts 
would  be  insupportable,  if  I  did  not  take  a  pack  of  cards  with 
me,  and  enjoy  a  quiet  rubber  with  three  other  heroes  in  some 
sequestered  corner.  As  for  night  work,  nothing  short  of  the 
indomitable  fortitude  of  a  Parisian  could  sustain  it  ;  the  tenta 
made  expressly  not  to  be  waterproof,  like  the  groves  of  the 
Muses  ; 

'per 
Quos  et  aquae  subeant  et  aura;.' 

A  fellow-companion  of  mine  tucks  himself  up  on  my  rug,  and 
pillows  his  head  on  my  knapsack.  I  remonstrate,  he  swears-^- 
the  other  heroes  wake  up  and  threaten  to  thrash  us  both  ;  and 
just  when  peace  is  made,  and  one  hopes  for  a  wink  of  sleep, 
a  detachment  of  spectators,  jchiefly  gamins,  coming  to  see 
that  all  is  safe  in  the  camp,  strike  up  the  .Marseillaise.  Ah, 
the  world  will  ring  to  the  end  of  time  with  the  sublime  atti- 
tude of  Paris  in  the  face  of  the  Vandal  invaders,  especially 
when  it  learns  that  the  very  shoes  we  stand  in  are  made  of 
cardboard.  In  vain  we  complain.  The  contractor  for  shoes  is 
a  staunch  Republican,  and  jobs  by  right  divine.  May  I  ask  if 
you  have  dined  yet  ?" 

"  Heavens  !  No,  it  is  too  early.  But  I  am  excessively 
hungry.  I  had  only  a  quarter  of  jugged  cat  for  breakfast,  and 
the  brute  was  tough.  In  reply  to  your  question,  may  I  put 
another :  "  Did  you  lay  in  plenty  of  stores  ?" 

"  Stores  ?  No  ;  I  am  a  bachelor,  and  rely  on  the  stores  of 
my  married  friends." 

"  Poor  De  Breze  !  I  sympathize  with  you,  for  I  am  in  the 
same  boat,  and  dinner  invitations  have  become  monstrous 
rare." 

"  Oh,  but  you  are  so  confoundedly  rich  !  What  to  you  are 
forty  francs  for  a  rabbit,  or  eighty  francs  for  a  turkey  ?  " 

"  Well,  I  suppose  I  am  rich,  but  I  have  no  money,  and  the 
ungrateful  restaurants  will  not  give  me  credit.  They  don't 
believe  in  better  days." 

"  How  can  you  want  money  ?" 

"  Very  naturally.  I  had  invested  my  capital  famously — the 
best  speculations — partly  in  house  rents,  partly  in  company 
shares  ;  and  houses  pay  no  rents,  and  nobody  will  buy  com- 
pany snares.  I  had  1000  napoleons  on  hand,  it  is  true,  when 
Duplessis  left  Paris — much  more,  I  thought,  than  I  could 
possibly  need,  for  I  never  believed  in  the  siege.  But  during 
the  first  few  weeks  I  played  at  whist  with  bad  luck,  and  since 


496  THE   PARISIANS, 

then  so  many  old  friends  have  borrowed  of  me  that  I  doubt  if 
I  have  200  francs  left.  I  have  despatched  four  letters  to 
Duplessis  by  pigeon  and  ballon,  entreating  him  to  send  me 
25,000  francs  by  some  trusty  fellow  who  will  pierce  the  Prus- 
sian lines.  I  have  had  two  answers  :  First,  that  he  will  find  a 
man  ;  second,  that  the  mar.  is  found  and  on  his  way.  Trust  to 
lhat  man,  my  dear  friend,  and  meanwhile  lend  me  200  francs." 

•"  Mon  cher,  de'sott to  refuse  ;  but  I  was  about  to  ask  you  to 
share  your  200  francs  with  me  who  live  chiefly  by  my  pen  ; 
and  that  resource  is  cut  off.  Still,  il  faut  vivre — one  must 
dine." 

"  That  is  a  fact,  and  we  will  dine  together  to-day  at  my 
expense,  limited  liability,  though — eight  francs  a  head." 

"Generous  Monsieur,  I  accept.  Meanwhile  let  us  take  a 
turn  towards  the  Madeleine." 

The  two  Parisians  quit  the  cafe,  and  proceed  up  the  Boule- 
vard. On  their  way  they  encounter  Savarin.  "Why,"  said 
De  Breze,  "I  thought  you  had  left  Paris  with  Madame." 

"  So  I  did,  and  deposited  her  safely  with  the  Morleys  at 
Boulogne.  These  kind  Americans  were  going  to  England,  and 
they  took  her  with  them.  But  /  quit  Paris  !  I  !  No  :  I  am 
old  ;  I  am  growing  obese.  I  have  always  been  shortsighted. 
I  can  neither  wield  a  sword  nor  handle  a  musket.  But  Paris 
needs  defenders  ;  and  every  moment  I  was  away  from  her  I 
sighed  to  myself  '  Jl  faut  etre  la  '/  I  returned  before  the  Van- 
dals had  possessed  themselves  of  our  railways,  the  convoi  over- 
crowded with  men  like  myself,  who  had  removed  wives  and 
families  ;  and  when  we  asked  each  other  why  we  went  back, 
«very  answer  was  the  same,  '  //  faut  fare  la?  No,  poor  child, 
no — I  have  nothing  to  give  you." 

These  last  words  were  addressed  to  a  woman  young  and 
handsome,  with  a  dress  that  a  few  weeks  ago  might  have  been 
admired  for  taste  and  elegance  by  the  lady  leaders  of  the  ton, 
but  was  now  darned,  and  dirty,  and  draggled. 

"  Monsieur,  I  did  not  stop  you  to  ask  for  alms.  You  do  not 
seem  to  remember  me,  M.  Savarin." 

"But  I  do,"  said  Leinercier,  "surely  I  address  Mademoiselle 
Julie  Caumartin." 

"Ah,  excuse  me,  le  petit  Frederic,"  said  Julie,  with  a  sickly 
attempt  at  coquettish  sprightliness  ;  "I  had  no  eyes  except 
for  M.  Savarin." 

"And  why  only  for  me,  my  poor  child?"  asked  the  kind- 
hearted  author. 

"Hush!"     She  drew  him   aside.     "Because  you  can  give 


tHE    PARISIANS.  497 

me  news  of  that  monster,  Gustave.  It  is  not  true,  it  cannot  be 
true,  that  he  is  going  to  be  married  ?  " 

"  Nay,  surely,  Mademoiselle,  all  connection  between  you  and 
young  Rameau  has  ceased  for  months — ceased  from  the  date 
of  that  illness  in  July  which  nearly  carried  him  off." 

"  I  resigned  him  to  the  care  of  his  mother,"  said  the  girl  ; 
"  but  when  he  no  longer  needs  a  mother,  he  belongs  to  me. 
Oh,  consider,  M.  Savarin,  for  his  sake  I  refused  the  most  splen- 
did offers !  When  he  sought  me,  I  had  my  coupe,  my  opera- 
box,  my  cachemires,  my  jewels.  The  Russians — the  English — 
vied  for  my  smiles.  But  I  loved  the  man.  I  never  loved 
before  :  I  shall  never  love  again  ;  and  after  the  sacrifices  I 
have  made  for  him,  nothing  shall  induce  me  to  give  him  up. 
Tell  me,  I  entreat,  my  dear  M.  Savarin,  where  he  is  hiding. 
He  has  left  the  parental  roof,  and  they  refused  there  to  give 
me  his  address." 

"  My  poor  girl,  don't  be  me'chante.  It  is  quite  true  that  Gus- 
tave Rameau  is  engaged  to  be  married  ;  and  any  attempt  of 
yours  to  create  scandal — " 

"Monsieur,"  interrupted  Julie  vehemently,  "don't  talk  to 
me  about  scandal !  The  man  is  mine,  and  no  one  else  shall 
have  him.  His  address?" 

"  Mademoiselle,"  cried  Savarin  angrily,  "find  it  out  for  your- 
self." Then,  repentant  of  rudeness  to  one  so  young  and  so 
desolate,  he  added,  in  mild  expostulatory  accents:  "Come, 
come,  ma  belle  enfant,  be  reasonable  :  Gustave  is  no  loss.  He 
is  reduced  to  poverty." 

"  So  much  the  better.  When  he  was  well  off  I  never  cost 
him  more  than  a  supper  at  the  Maison  Dore"e  ;  and  if  he  is 
poor  he  shall  marry  me,  and  1  will  support  him  !  " 

"  You  ! — and  how  ? " 

"By  my  profession  when  peace  comes;  and  meanwhile  I 
have  offers  from  a  cafe  to  recite  warlike  songs.  Ah  !  you  shake 
your  head  incredulously.  The  ballet-dancer  recite  verses  ? 
Yes  !  he  taught  me  to  recite  his  own.  Soyez  bon  pour  mot,  M. 
Savarin  !  Do  say  where  I  can  find  mon  homme" 

"  No."  \ 

"  That  is  your  last  word  ?  " 

"  it  is.;' 

The  girl  drew  her  thin  shawl  round  her  and  hurried  off. 
Savarin  rejoined  his  friends.  "  Is  that  the  way  you  console 
yourself  for  the  absence  of  Madame  ?  "  asked  De  Breze"  drily. 

"Fie!"  cried  Savarin  indignantly;  "such  bad  jokes  are 
ill-timed.  What  strange  mixtures  of  good  and  bad,  of  noble 


408  THE   PARISIANS. 

and  base,  every  stratum  of  Paris  life  contains  !  There  is 
that  poor  girl,  in  one  way  contemptible,  no  doubt,  and  yet  in 
another  way  she  has  an  element  of  grandeur.  On  the  whole, 
at  Paris,  the  women,  with  all  their  faults,  are  of  finer  mould 
than  the  men." 

"  French  gallantry  has  always  admitted  that  truth,"  said 
Lemercier.  "  Fox,  Fox,  Fox."  Uttering  this  cry,  he  darted 
forward  after  the  dog,  who  had  strayed  a  few  yards  to  salute 
another  dog  led  by  a  string,  and  caught  the  animal  in  his  arms. 
"  Pardon  me,"  he  exclaimed,  returning  to  his  friends,  "  but 
there  are  so  many  snares  for  dogs  at  present.  They  are  jiibt 
coming  into  fashion  for  roasts,  and  Fox  is  so  plump." 

"  I  thought,"  said  Savarin,  "that  it  was  resolved  at  all  the 
sporting  clubs  that,  be  the  pinch  of  famine  ever  so  keen,  the 
friend  of  man  should  not  be  eaten." 

"  That  was  while  the  beef  lasted  ;  but  since  we  have  come 
to  cats,  who  shall  predict  immunity  to  dogs  ?  Quid  intacium 
ne-faste  liquimus  ?  Nothing  is  sacred  from  the  hand  of  rapine." 

The  church  of  the  Madeleine  now  stood  before  them.  Mob- 
lots  were  playing  pitch-and-toss  on  its  steps. 

"I  don't  wish  you  to  accompany  me,  Messieurs,"  said  Le- 
mercier, apologetically,  "but  I  am  going  to  enter  the  church." 

"To  pray?  "  asked  De  Bre"ze,  in  profound  astonishment. 

"  Not  exactly  ;  but  I  want  to  speak  to  my  friend  Roche- 
briant,  and  I  know  I  shall  find  him  there." 

"  Praying  ?  "-again  asked  De  Breze. 

"  Yes." 

"  That  is  curious — a  young  Parisian  exquisite  at  prayer — 
that  is  worth  seeing.  Let  us  enter,  too,  Savarin." 

They  enter  the  church.  It  is  filled,  and  even  the  sceptical 
De  Br6ze  is  impressed  and  awed  by  the  sight.  An  intense 
fervor  pervades  the  congregation.  The  majority,  it  is  true,  are 
women,  many  of  them  in  deep  mourning,  and  many  of  their 
faces  mourning  deeper  than  the  dress.  Everywhere  may  be 
seen  gushing  tears,  and  everywhere  faintly  heard  the  sound  of 
stifled  sighs.  Besides  the  women  were  men  of  all  ages,  young, 
middle-aged,  old,  with  heads  bowed  and  hands  clasped,  pale, 
grave,  and  earnest.  Most  of  them  were  evidently  of  the 
superior  grade  in  life — nobles,  and  the  higher  bourgeoisie,  few 
of  the  ouvrier  class^  very  few,  and  these  were  of  an  earlier 
generation.  I  except  soldiers,  of  whom  there  were  many,  from 
the  provincial  Mobiles,  chiefly  Bretons  ;  you  knew  the  Breton 
soldiers  by  the  little  cross  worn  on  their  ke"pis. 

Among   them    Lemercier  at  once  distinguished  the  noble 


THE    PARISIANS.  499 

Countenance  of  Alain  de  Rochebriant.  De  Breze  and  Savarin 
looked  at  each  other  with  solemn  eyes.  I  know  not  when 
either  had  last  been  within  a  church  ;  perhaps  both  were  startled 
to  find  that  religion  still  existed  in  Paris — and  largely  exist  it 
does,  though  little  seen  on  the  surface  of  society,  little  to  be 
estimated  by  the  articles  of  journals  and  the  reports  of  foreign- 
ers. Unhappily,  those  among  whom  it  exists  are  not  the  ruling 
class,  are  of  the  classes  that  are  dominated  over  and  obscured 
in  every  country  the  moment  the  populace  becomes  master. 
And  at  that  moment  the  journals  chiefly  read  were  warring 
more  against  the  Deity  than  the  Prussians  ;  were  denouncing 
soldiers  who  attended  mass.  "  The  Gospel  certainly  makes  a 
bad  soldier,"  writes  the  patriot  Pyat. 

Lemercier  knelt  down  quietly.  The  other  two  men  crept 
noiselessly  out,  and  stood  waiting  for  him  on  the  steps,  watch- 
ing  the  Moblots  (Parisian  Mobhts]  at  play. 

"  I  should  not  wait  for  the  roturier  if  he  had  not  promised 
me  a  roti"  said  the  Vicomte  de  Bre"ze,  with  a  pitiful  attempt  at 
the  patrician  wit  of  the  ancicn  regime. 

Savarin  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "  I  am  not  included  in  the 
invitation,"  said  he,  "  and  therefore  free  to  depart.  I  must  go 
and  look  up  a  former  confrere  who  was  an  enthusiastic  Red 
Republican,  and  I  fear  does  not  get  so  much  to  eat  since  he 
has  no  longer  an  Emperor  to  abuse." 

So  Savarin  went  away.  A  few  minutes  afterwards  Lemer- 
cier emerged  from  the  church  with  Alain. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

"  I  KNEW  I  should  find  you  in  the  Madeleine,"  said  Lemer- 
cier, "  and  I  wished  much  to  know  when  you  had  news  from 
Duplessis.  He  and  your  fair  fiance'e  are  with  your  aunt  and 
still  staying  at  Rochebriant  ?  " 

"Certainly.  A  pigeon  arrived  this  morning  with  a  few  lines. 
All  well  there." 

"  And  Duplessis  thinks,  despite  the  war,  that  he  shall  be  able, 
when  the  time  comes,  to  pay  Louvier  the  mortgage-sum?" 

"  He  never  doubts  that.  His  credit  in  London  is  so  good. 
But  of  course  all  works  of  improvement  are  stopped." 

"  Pray  did  he  mention  me  ?  Anything  about  the  messenger 
who  was  to  pierce  the  Prussian  lines  ?  " 

"  What !  has  the  man  not  arrived  ?  It  is  two  weeks  since 
he  left." 


5oo  THE  PARISIANS. 

u  The  Uhlans  have  no  doubt  shot  him — the  assassins  ;  and 
drunk  up  my  25,000  francs — the  thieves." 

"  I  hope  not.  But  in  case  of  delay,  Duplessis  tells  me  I  am 
to  remit  to  you  2000  francs  for  your  present  wants.  I  will 
send  them  to  you  this  evening." 

"  How  the  deuce  do  you  possess  such  a  sum?  " 

"  I  came  from  Brittany  with  a  purse  well  filled.  Of  course  I 
could  have  no  scruples  in  accepting  money  from  my  destined 
father-in-law." 

"  And  you  can  spare  this  sum  ?  " 

"  Certainly-T-'the  State  now  provides  for  me  ;  I  am  in  com- 
mand of  a  Breton  company." 

"  True.     Come  and  dine  with  me  and  De  Breze." 

"  Alas  !  I  cannot.  I  have  to  see  both  the  Vandemars  be- 
fore I  return  to  the  camp  for  the  night.  And  now — hush — come 
this  way  (drawing  Frederic  further  from  De  Braze"),  I  have 
famous  news  for  you.  A  sortie  on  a  grand  scale  is  imminent ; 
in  a  few  days  we  may  hope  for  it." 

"  I  have  heard  that  so  often  that  I  am  incredulous." 

"  Take  it  as  a  fact  now. 

"  What  !     Trochu  has  at  last  matured  his  plan?  " 

"  He  has  changed  its  original  design,  which  was  to  cut 
through  the  Prussian  lines  to  Rouen,  occupying  there  the  rich- 
est country  for  supplies,  guarding  the  left  bank  of  the  Seine 
and  a  watercourse  to  convoy  them  to  Paris.  The  incidents  of 
war  prevented  that  :  he  has  a  better  plan  now.  The  victory 
of  the  army  of  the  Loire  at  Orleans  opens  a  new  enterprise. 
We  shall  cut  our  way  through  the  Prussians,  join  that  army, 
and  with  united  forces  fall  on  the  enemy  at  the  rear.  Keep 
this  a  secret  as  yet,  but  rejoice  with  me  that  we  shall  prove  to 
the  invaders  what  men  who  fight  for  their  native  soil  can  do 
under  the  protection  of  Heaven." 

"  Fox,  Fox,  won  chert,"  said  Lemercier,  as  he  walked 
towards  the  Cafe  Riche  with  De  Breze  ;  "thou  shall  have  a 
fcstin  de  Balthazar  under  the  protection  of  Heaven.'* 


CHAPTER  XV. 

ON  leaving  Lemercier  and  De  Br6ze,  Savarin  regained  the 
Boulevard,  and  pausing  every  now  and  then  to  exchange  a  few 
words  with  acquaintances — the  acquaintances  of  the  genial 
author  were  numerous — turned  into  the  Quartier  de  la  Chaus- 
se"e  d'Antin,  and  gaining  a  small,  neat  house,  with  richly 


THE    PARISIANS.  50! 

ornamented  fafade,  mounted  very  clean,  well-kept  stairs  to  a 
third  story.  On  one  of  the  doors  on  the  landing-place  was 
nailed  a  card,  inscribed,  "  Gustave  Rameau,  Jiomme  de  let/res.'' 
Certainly  it  is  not  usual  in  Paris  thus  to  afficher  one's  self  as  a 
"man  of  letters."  But  Genius  scorns  what  is  usual.  Had 
not  Victor  Hugo  left  in  the  hotel-books  on  the  Rhine  his  desig- 
nation "  homme  de  let/res  "?  Did  not  the  heir  to  one  of  the 
loftiest  houses  in  the  peerage  of  England,  and  who  was  also  a 
first-rate  amateur  in  painting,  inscribe  on  his  studio  when  in 

Italy,  ,  "artiste"?  Such  examples,  no  doubt,  were 

familiar  to  Gustave  Rameau,  and  "  homme  de  lettres"  was  on 
the  scrap  of  pasteboard  nailed  to  his  door. 

Savarin  rang;  the  door  opened,  and  Gustave  appeared. 
The  poet  was,  of  course,  picturesquely  attired.  In  his  day  of 
fashion  he  had  worn  within  doors  a  very  pretty,  fanciful  costume, 
designed  after  portraits  of  the  young  Raffaele  ;  that  costume 
he  had  preserved — lie  wore  it  now.  It  looked  very  thread- 
bare, and  the  pourpoint  very  soiled.  But  the  beauty  of  the 
poet's  face  had  survived  the  lustre  of  the  garments.  True, 
thanks  to  absinthe,  the  cheeks  had  become  somewhat  puffy 
and  bloated.  Gray  was  distinctly  visible  in  the  long,  ebon 
tresses.  But  still  the  beauty  of  the  face  was  of  that  rare  type 
which  a  Thorvvaldsen  or  a  Gibson  seeking  a  model  for  a  Nar- 
cissus would  have  longed  to  fix  into  marble. 

Gustave  received  his  former  chief  with  a  certain  air  of 
reserved  dignity  ;  led  him  into  his  chamber,  only  divided  by  a 
curtain  from  his  accommodation  for  washing  and  slumber,  and 
placed  him  in  an  arm-chair  beside  a  drowsy  fire — fuel  had 
already  become  very  dear. 

"  Gustave,"  said  Savarin,  "are  you  in  a  mood  favorable  to 
a  little  serious  talk  ?" 

"  Serious  talk  from  M.  Savarin  is  a  novelty  too  great  not  to 
command  my  profoundest  interest." 

"  Thank  you — and  to  begin  :  I  who  know  the  world  and 
mankind  advise  you,  who  do  not,  never  to  meet  a  man  who 
wishes  to  do  you  a  kindness  with  an  ungracious  sarcasm. 
Irony  is  a  weapon  I  ought  to  be  skilled  in,  but  weapons  are 
used  against  enemies,  and  it  is  only  a  tyro  who  flourishes  his 
rapier  in  the  face  of  his  friends." 

"  I  was  not  aware  that  M.  Savarin  still  permitted  me  to 
regard  him  as  a  friend." 

"  Because  I  discharged  the  duties  of  friend — remonstrated, 
advised,  and  warned.  However,  let  bygones  be  bygones.  I 
entreated  you  not  to  quit  the  safe  shelter  of  the  paternal  roof. 


502  THE    PARISIANS. 

You  insisted  on  doing  so.  I  entreated  you  not  to  send  to  one 
of  the  most  ferocious  of  the  Red,  or,  rather,  the  Communistic 
journals,  articles,  very  eloquent,  no  doubt,  but  which  would 
most  seriously  injure  you  in  the  eyes  of  quiet,  orderly  people, 
and  compromise  your  future  literary  career  for  the  sake  of  a 
temporary  flash  in  the  pan  during  a  very  evanescent  period  of 
revolutionary  excitement.  You  scorned  my  adjurations,  but 
at  all  events  you  had  the  grace  not  to  append  your  true  name 
to  those  truculent  effusions.  In  literature,  if  literature  revive 
in  France,  we  two  are  henceforth  separated.  But  I  do  not 
forego  the  friendly  interest  I  took  in  you  in  the  days  when  you 
were  so  continually  in  my  house.  My  wife,  who  liked  you  so 
cordially,  implored  me  to  look  after  you  during  her  absence 
from  Paris,  and,  enfin,  mon  pauvre  garfon,  it  would  grieve  me 
very  much  if,  when  she  comes  back,  I  had  to  say  to  her,  'Gus- 
tave  Rameau  has  thrown  away  the  chance  of  redemption  and 
of  happiness  which  you  deemed  was  secure  to  him.'  A  I' ceil 
malade  la  lumttre  nuit." 

So  saying,  he  held  out  his  hand  kindly. 

Gustave,  who  was  far  from  deficient  in  affectionate  or  tender 
impulses,  took  the  hand  respectfully,  and  pressed  it  warmly. 

"  Forgive  me  if  I  have  been  ungracious,  M.  Savarin,  and 
vouchsafe  to  hear  my  explanation." 

"Willingly,  man  garden." 

"  When  1  became  convalescent,  well  enough  to  leave  my 
father's  house,  there  were  circumstances  which  compelled  me 
to  do  so.  A  young  man  accustomed  to  the  life  of  a  garfon 
can't  be  always  tied  to  his  mother's  apron-strings." 

"  Especially  if  the  apron  pocket  does  not  contain  a  bottle  of 
absinthe,"  said  Savarin  drily.  "You  may  well  color  and  try 
to  look  angry  ;  but  I  know  that  the  doctor  strictly  forbade  the 
use  of  that  deadly  liqueur,  and  enjoined  your  mother  to  keep 
strict  watch  on  your  liability  to  its  temptations.  And  hence 
one  cause  of  your  ennui  under  the  paternal  roof.  But  if  there 
you  could  not  imbibe  absinthe,  you  were  privileged  to  enjoy  a 
much  diviner  intoxication.  There  you  could  have  the  fore- 
taste of  domestic  bliss, — the  society  of  the  girl  you  loved,  and 
who  was  pledged  to  become  yoxir  wife.  Speak  frankly.  Did 
not  that  society  itself  begin  to  be  wearisome  ?  " 

"  No,"  cried  Gustave  eagerly,  "  it  was  not  wearisome,  but — " 

"  Yes,  but—' 

"  But  it  could  not  be  all-sufficing  to  a  soul  of  fire  like  mine." 

"Hem,"  murmured  Savarin,  "a  soul  of  fife  !  This  is  very 
interesting  ;  pray  go  on," 


THE    PARISIANS. 

"The  calm,  cold,  sister-like  affection  of  a  childish,  unde- 
veloped nature,  which  knew  no  passion  except  for  art,  and  was 
really  so  little  emancipated  from  the  nursery  as  to  take  for 
serious  truth  all  the  old  myths  of  religion — such  companionship 
may  be  very  soothing  and  pleasant  when  one  is  lying  on  one's 
sofa,  and  must  live  by  rule,  but  when  one  regains  the  vigor  of 
youth  and  health — " 

"  Do  not  pause,"  said  Savarin,  gazing  with  more-compassion 
than  envy  on  that  melancholy  impersonation  of  youth  and 
health.  "  When  one  regains  that  vigor  of  which  I  myself  have 
no  recollection,  what  happens  ?  " 

"  The  thirst  for  excitement,  the  goads  of  ambition,  the 
irresistible  claims  which  the  world  urges  upon  genius, 
return." 

"And  that  genius,  finding  itself  at  the  North  Pole  amid 
Cimmerian  darkness  in  the  atmosphere  of  a  childish  intellect — 
in  other  words,  the  society  of  a  pure-minded  virgin,  who,  though 
a  good  romance-writer,  writes  nothing  but  what  a  virgin  may 
read,  and,  though  a  bel  esprit,  says  her  prayers  and  goes  to 
church — then  genius — well,  pardon  my  ignorance — what  does 
genius  do  ?  " 

"  Oh,  M.  Savarin,  M.  Savarin  !  don't  let  us  talk  any  more. 
There  is  no  sympathy  between  us.  I  cannot  bear  that  blood- 
less, mocking,  cynical  mode  of  dealing  with  grand  emotions, 
which  belongs  to  the  generation  of  the  Doctrinaires.  I  am  not 
a  Thiers  or  a  Guizot." 

"Good  heavens  !  who  ever  accused  you  of  being  either?  I 
did  not  mean  to  be  cynical.  Mademoiselle  Cicogna  has  often 
said  I  am,  but  I  did  not  think  you  would.  Pardon  me.  I 
quite  agree  with  the  philosopher  who  asserted  that  the  wisdom 
of  the  past  was  an  imposture,  that  the  meanest  intellect  now 
living  is  wiser  than  the  greatest  intellect  which  is  buried  in 
Pere  la  Chaise  ;  because  the  dwarf  who  follows  the  giant, 
when  perched  on  the  shoulders  of  the  giant,  sees  farther  than 
the  giant  ever  could.  I  go  in  for  your  generation.  I  abandon 
Guizot  and  Thiers.  Do  condescend  and  explain  to  my  dull 
understanding,  as  the  inferior  mortal  of  a  former  age,  what 
are  the  grand  emotions  which  impel  a  soul  of  fire  in  your 
wiser  generation.  The  thirst  of  excitement — what  excitement  ? 
The  goads  of  ambition — what  ambition  ?" 

"A  new  social  system  is  struggling  from  the  dissolving  ele- 
ments of  the  old  one,  as  in  the  fables  of  priestcraft,  the  soul 
frees  itself  from  the  body  which  has  become  ripe  for  the 
grave.  Of  that  new  system  I  aspire  to  be  a  champion,  3 


504  THE    PARISIANS. 

leader.  Behold  the  excitement  that  allures  me,  the  ambition 
that  goads." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Savarin  meekly  ;  "  I  am  answered.  I 
recognize  the  dwarf  perched  on  the  back  of  the  giant.  Quit- 
ting these  lofty  themes,  I  venture  to  address  to  you  now  one 
simple,  matter-of-fact  question — How  about  Mademoiselle 
Cicogna  ?  Do  you  think  you  can  induce  her  to  transplant 
herself  to  the  new  social  system,  which  I  presume  will  abolish, 
among  other  obsolete  myths,  the  institution  of  marriage?" 

"  M.  Savarin,  your  question  offends  me.  Theoretically  I 
am  opposed  to  the  existing  superstitions  that  encumber  the 
very  simple  principle  by  which  may  be  united  two  persons  so 
long  as  they  desire  the  union,  and  separated  so  soon  as  the 
union  becomes  distasteful  to  either.  But  I  am  perfectly  aware 
that  such  theories  would  revolt  a  young  lady  like  Mademoiselle 
Cicogna.  I  have  never  even  named  them  to  her,  and  our 
engagement  holds  good." 

"  Engagement  of  marriage  ?  No  period  for  the  ceremony 
fixed  ?" 

"  That  is  not  my  fault.  I  urged  it  on  Isaura  with  all  earnest- 
ness before  I  left  my  father's  home." 

"  That  was  long  after  the  siege  had  begun.  Listen  to  me, 
Gustave.  No  persuasion  of  mine  or  my  wife's,  or  Mrs.  Mor- 
ley's,  could  induce  Isaura  to  quit  Paris  while  it  was  yet  time. 
She  said  very  simply  that,  having  pledged  her  truth  and  hand 
to  you,  it  would  be  treason  to  honor  and  duty  if  she  should 
allow  any  considerations  for  herself  to  be  even  discussed  so 
long  as  you  needed  her  presence.  You  were  then  still  suffer- 
ing, and  though  convalescent,  not  without  danger  of  a  relapse. 
And  your  mother  said  to  her — I  heard  the  words  :  '  'Tis  not 
for  his  bodily  health  I  could  dare  to  ask  you  to  stay,  when 
every  man  who  can  afford  it  is  sending  away  his  wife,  sisters, 
daughters.  As  for  that,  I  should  suffice  to  tend  him  ;  but  if 
you  go  I  resign  all  hope  for  the  health  of  his  mind  and 
his  soul.'  I  think  at  Paris  there  may  be  female  poets  and 
artists  whom  that  sort  of  argument  would  not  have  much  influ- 
enced. But  it  so  happens  that  Isaura  is  not  a  Parisienne. 
She  believes  in  those  old  myths  which  you  think  fatal  to  sym- 
pathies with  yourself ;  and  those  old  myths  also  lead  her  to 
believe  that  where  a  woman  has  promised  she  will  devote  her  life 
to  a  man,  she  cannot  forsake  him  when  told  by  his  mother  that 
she  is  necessary  to  the  health  of  his  mind  and  his  soul.  Stay. 
Before  you  interrupt  me,  let  me  finish  what  I  have  to  say.  It 
appears  that,  so  soon  as  your  bodily  health  was  improved,  you 


THE   PARISIANS.  505 

felt  that  your  mind  and  your  soul  could  take  care  of  them- 
selves ;  and  certainly  it  seems  to  me  that  Isaura  Cicogna  is  no 
longer  of  the  smallest  use  to  either." 

Rameau  was  evidently  much  disconcerted  by  this  speech.  He 
saw  what  Savarin  was  driving  at — the  renunciation  of  all  bond 
between  Isaura  and  himself.  He  was  not  prepared  for  such 
renunciation.  He  still  felt  for  the  Italian  as  much  of  love  as 
he  could  feel  for  any  woman  who  did  not  kneel  at  his  feet,  as 
at  those  of  Apollo  condescending  to  the  homage  of  Arcadian 
maids.  But,  on  the  one  hand,  he  felt  that  many  circumstances 
had  occurred  since  the  disaster  at  Sedan  to  render  Isaura  a 
very  much  less  desirable  parti  than  she  had  been  when  he  had 
first  wrung  from  her  the  pledge  of  betrothal.  In  the  palmy 
times  of  a  government  in  which  literature  and  art  commanded 
station  and  insured  fortune,  Isaura,  whether  as  authoress  or 
singer,  was  a  brilliant  marriage  for  Gustave  Rameau.  She  had 
also  then  an  assured  and  competent,  if  modest,  income.  But 
when  times  change,  people  change  with  them.  As  the  income 
for  the  moment  (and  heaven  only  can  say  how  long  that  mo- 
ment might  last),  Isaura's  income  had  disappeared.  It  will  be 
recollected  that  Louvier  had  invested  her  whole  fortune  in  the 
houses  to  be  built  in  the  street  called  after  his  name.  No 
houses,  even  when  built,  paid  any  rent  now.  Louvier  had  quit- 
ted Paris  ;  and  Isaura  could  only  be  subsisting  upon  such 
small  sum  as  she  might  have  had  in  hand  before  the  siege  com- 
menced. All  career  in  such  literature  and  art  as  Isaura  adorned 
was  at  a  dead  stop.  Now,  to  do  Rameau  justice,  he  was  by  no 
means  an  avaricious  or  mercenary  man.  But  he  yearned  for 
modes  of  life  to  which  money  was  essential.  He  liked  his 
"comforts";  and  his  comforts  included  the  luxuries  of  elegance 
and  show — comforts  not  to  be  attained  by  marriage  with  Isaura 
under  existing  circumstances. 

"Nevertheless,  it  is  quite  true  that  he  had  urged  her  to  marry 
him  at  once,  before  he  had  quitted  his  father's  house  ;  and  her 
modest  shrinking  from  such  proposal,  however  excellent  the 
reasons  for  delay  in  the  national  calamities  of  the  time,  as  well 
as  the  poverty  which  the  calamity  threatened,  had  greatly 
wounded  his  amour propre.  He  had  always  felt  that  her  affec- 
tion for  him  was  not  love  ;  and  though  he  could  reconcile  him- 
self to  that  conviction  when  many  solid  advantages  were 
attached  to  the  prize  of  her  love,  and  when  he  was  ill,  and  pen- 
itent, and  maudlin,  and  the  calm  affection  of  a  saint  seemed 
to  him  infinitely  preferable  to  the  vehement  passion  of  TI  sinner, 
yet  when  Isaura  was  only  Isaura  by  herself — Isaura  minus  all 


506  THE    PARISIANS, 

tli e  etcetera  which  had  previously  been  taken  into  account—- 
the want  of  adoration  for  himself  very  much  lessened  her 
value. 

Still,  though  he  acquiesced  in  the  delayed  fulfilment  of  the 
engagement  with  Isaura,  he  had  no  thought  of  withdrawing 
from  the  engagement  itself,  and  after  a  slight  pause  he  replied  : 
"You  do  me  great  injustice  if  you  suppose  that  the  occupa- 
tions to  which  I  devote  myself  render  me  less  sensible  to  the 
merits  of  Mademoiselle  Cicogna,  or  less  eager  for  our  union. 
On  the  contrary,  I  will  confide  to  you,  as  a  man  of  the  world, 
one  main  reason  why  I  quitted  my  father's  house,  and  why  1 
desire  to  keep  my  present  address  a  secret.  Mademoiselle 
Caumartin  conceived  for  me  a  passion,  a  caprice,  which  was 
very  flattering  for  a  time,  but  which  latterly  became  very 
troublesome.  Figure  to  yourself — she  daily  came  to  our  house 
while  I  was  lying  ill,  and  with  the  greatest  difficulty  my  mother 
got  her  out  of  it.  That  was  not  all.  She  pestered  me  with 
letters  containing  all  sorts  of  threats — nay,  actually  kept  watch 
at  the  house  ;  and  one  day  when  I  entered  the  carriage  with 
my  mother  and  Signora  Venosta  for  a  drive  in  the  Bois  (mean- 
ing to  call  for  Isaura  by  the  way),  she  darted  to  the  carriage 
door,  caught  my  hand,  and  would  have  made  a  scene  if  the 
coachman  had  given  her  leave  to  do  so.  Luckily  he  had  the  tact 
to  whip  on  his  horses,  and  we  escaped.  I  had  some  little  diffi- 
culty in  convincing  the  Signora  Venosta  that  the  girl  was 
crazed.  But  I  felt  the  danger  I  incurred  of  her  coming  upon 
me  some  moment  when  in  company  with  Isaura,  and  so  I 
left  my  father's  house  ;  and  naturally  wishing  to  steer  clear 
of  this  vehement  little  demon  till  I  am  safely  married,  I 
keep  my  address  a  secret  from  all  who  are  likely  to  tell  her 
of  it."  , 

"  You  do  wisely  if  you  are  really  afraid  of  her,  and  cannot 
trust  your  nerves  to  say  to  her  plainly,  '  I  am  engaged  to  be 
married  ;  all  is  at  an  end  between  us.  Do  not  force  nVe*  to 
employ  the  police  to  protect  myself  from  unwelcome  impor- 
tunities.' " 

"  Honestly  speaking,  I  doubt  if  I  have  the  nerve  to  do  that, 
and  I  doubt  still  more  if  it  would  be  of  any  avail.  It  is  very 
embetant  to  be  so  passionately  loved  ;  but,  que  voulez  vous  ?  It 
is  my  fate." 

"  Poor  martyr  !  I  condole  with  you  :  and  to  say  truth,  it 
was  chiefly  to  warn  you  of  Mademoiselle  Caumartin's  perti- 
nacity that  I  call  this  evening." 

Here  Savarin  related  the  particulars   of  his  rencontre  with 


THE   PAklStANS.  567 

Julie,  and  concluded  by  saying  :  "  I  suppose  I  may  take  your 
word  of  honor  that  you  will  firmly  resist  all  temptation  to 
renew  a  connection  which  would  be  so  incompatible  with  the 
respect  due  to  your  fiancee?  Fatherless  and  protectorless  as 
Isaura  is,  I  feel  bound  to  act  as  a  virtual  guardian  to  one  in 
whom  my  wife  takes  so  deep  an  interest,  and  to  whom,  as 
she  thinks  she  had  some  hand  in  bringing  about  your  engage- 
ment, she  is  committed  to  no  small  responsibilities.  Do  not 
allow  poor  Julie,  whom  I  sincerely  pity,  to  force  on  me  the 
unpleasant  duty  of  warning  your  fiancee  of  the  dangers  to  which 
she  might  be  subjected  by  marriage  with  an  Adonis  whose  fate 
it  is  to  be  so  profoundly  beloved  by  the  sex  in  general,  and 
ballet  nymphs  in  particular." 

"  There  is  no  chance  of  so  disagreeable  a  duty  being  incum- 
bent on  you,  M.  Savarin.  Of  course,  what  I  myself  have  told 
you  in  confidence  is  sacred." 

"  Certainly.  There  are  things  in  the  life  of  zgarfon  before 
marriage  which  would  be  an  affront  to  the  modesty  of  his 
fiancee  to  communicate  and  discuss.  But  then  those  things 
must  belong  exclusively  to  the  past,  and  cast  no  shadow  over 
the  future.  I  will  not  interrupt  you  further.  No  doubt  you 
have  work  for  the  night  before  you.  Do  the  Red  journalists 
for  whom  you  write  pay  enough  to  support  you  in  these  terribly 
dear  times  ?" 

"  Scarcely.  But  I  look  forward  to  wealth  and  fame  in  the 
future.  And  you  ?  " 

"  I  just  escape  starvation.  If  the  siege  last  much  longer,  it 
is  not  of-  the  gout  I  shall  die.  Good-night  to  you." 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

ISAURA  had,  as  we  have  seen,  been  hitherto  saved  by  the 
siege  and  its  consequences  from  the  fulfilment  of  her  engage- 
ment to  Gustave  Rameau  ;  and  since  he  had  quitted  his  father's 
house  she  had  not  only  seen  less  of  him,  but  a  certain  chill 
crept  into  his  converse  in  the  visits  he  paid  to  her.  The  com- 
passionate feeling  his  illness  had  excited,  confirmed  by  the 
unwonted  gentleness  of  his  mood,  and  the  short-lived  remorse 
with  which  he  spoke  of  his  past  faults  and  follies,  necessarily 
faded  away  in  proportion  as  he  regained  that  kind  of  febrile 
strength  which  was  his  normal  state  of  health,  and  with  it  the 
arrogant  self-assertion  which  was  ingrained  in  his  character. 
But  it  was  now  more  than  ever  that  she  became  aware  of  the 


508 


Ttifc   PARISIANS. 


antagonism  between  all  that  constituted  his  inner  life  and  her 
own.  It  was  not  that  he  volunteered  in  her  presence  the 
express  utterance  of  those  opinions,  social  or  religious,  which 
he  addressed  to  the  public  in  the  truculent  journal  to  which, 
under  a  nom  deplume,  he  was  the  most  inflammatory  contrib- 
utor. Whether  it  was  that  he  shrank  from  insulting  the  ears 
of  the  pure  virgin  whom  he  had  wooed  as  wife  with  avowals  of 
his  disdain  of  marriage  bonds,  or  perhaps  from  shocking  yet 
more  her  womanly  humanity  and  her  religious  faith  by  cries 
for  the  blood  of  anti-republican  traitors  and  the  downfall  of 
Christian  altars  ;  or  whether  he  yet  clung,  though  with  relaps- 
ing affection,  to  the  hold  which  her  promise  had  imposed  on 
him,  and  felt  that  that  hold  would  be  forever  gone,  and  that 
she  would  recoil  from  his  side  in  terror  and  dismay,  if  she  once 
learned  that  the  man  who  had  implored  her  to  be  his  saving 
angel  from  the  comparatively  mild  errors  of  youth  had  so 
belied  his  assurance,  so  mocked  her  credulity,  as  deliberately 
to  enter  into  active  warfare  against  all  that  he  knew  her  senti- 
ments regarded  as  noble  and  her  conscience  received  as  divine  : 
despite  the  suppression  of  avowed  doctrine  on  his  part,  the 
total  want  of  sympathy  between  these  antagonistic  natures 
made  itself  felt  by  both — more  promptly  felt  by  Isaura.  If 
Gustave  did  not  frankly  announce  to  her  in  that  terrible  time 
(when  all  that  a  little  later  broke  out  on  the  side  of  the  Com- 
munists was  more  or  less  forcing  ominous  way  to  the  lips  of 
those  who  talked  with  confidence  to  each  other,  whether  to 
approve  or  condemn)  the  associates  with  whom  he  was  leagued, 
the  path  to  which  he  had  committed  his  career,  still 'for  her 
instincts  for  genuine  Art — which  for  its  development  needs  the 
serenity  of  peace,  which  for  its  ideal  needs  dreams  that  soar 
into  the  Infinite — Gustave  had  only  the  scornful  sneer  of  the 
man  who  identifies  with  his  ambition  the  violent  upset  of  all 
that  civilization  has  established  in  this  world,  and  the  blank 
negation  of  all  that  patient  hope  and  heroic  aspiration  which 
humanity  carries  on  into  the  next. 

On  his  side,  Gustave  Rameau,  who  was  not  without  certain 
fine  and  delicate  attributes  in  a  complicated  nature  over  which 
the  personal  vanity  and  the  mobile  temperament  of  the  Pa- 
risian reigned  supreme,  chafed  at  the  restraints  imposed  on  him. 
No  matter  what  a  man's  doctrines  may  be — however  abomin- 
able you  and  I  may  deem  them — man  desires  to  find  in  the 
dearest  fellowship  he  can  establish,  that  sympathy  in  the  woman 
his  choice  singles  out  from  her  sex — deference  to  his  opinions, 
sympathy  with  his  objects,  as  man.  So,  too,  Gustave's  sense 


THE    PARISIANS.  509 

« 

of  honor — and  according  to  his  own  Parisian  code  that  sense 
was  keen — became  exquisitely  stung  by  the  thought  that  he 
was  compelled  to  play  the  part  of  a  mean  dissimulator  to  the 
girl  for  whose  opinions  he  had  the  profoundest  contempt. 
How  could  these  two,  betrothed  to  each  other,  not  feel,  though 
without  coming  to  open  dissension,  that  between  them  had 
flowed  the  inlet  of  water  by  which  they  had  been  riven  asun- 
der ?  What  man,  if  he  can  imagine  himself  a  GiistaveRameau, 
can  blame  the  revolutionist  absorbed  in  ambitious  projects  for 
turning  the  pyramid  of  society  topsy-turvy,  if  he  shrank  more 
and  more  from  the  companionship  of  a  betrothed  with  whom 
he. could  not  venture  to  exchange  three  words  without  caution 
and  reserve  ?  And  what  woman  can  blame  an  Isaura  if  she 
felt  a  sensation  of  relief  at  the  very  neglect  of  the  affianced 
whom  she  had  compassionated  and  could  never  love? 

Possibly  the  reader  may  best  judge  of  the  state  of  Isaura's 
mind  at  this  time  by  a  few  brief  extracts  from  an  imperfect, 
fragmentary  journal,  in  which,  amid  saddened  and  lonely 
hours,  she  held  converse  with  herself. 

"  One  day  at  Enghien  I  listened  silently  to  a  conversation 
between  M.  Savarin  and  the  Englishman,  who  sought  to 
explain  the  conception  of  duty  in  which  the  German  poet  has 
given  such  noble  utterance  to  the  thoughts  of  the  German 
philosopher,  viz.,  that  moral  aspiration  has  the  same  goal  as 
the  artistic — the  attainment  to  the  calm  delight  wherein  the 
pain  of  effort  disappears  in  the  content  of  achievement.  Thus 
in  life,  as  in  art,  it  is  through  discipline  that  we  arrive  at  free- 
dom, and  duty  only  completes  itself  when  all  motives,  all 
actions,  are  attuned  into  one  harmonious  whole,  and  it  is  not 
striven  for  as  duty,  but  enjoyed  as  happiness.  M.  Savarin 
treated  this  theory  with  the  mockery  with  which  the  French 
wit  is  ever  apt  to  treat  what  it  terms  German  mysticism. 
According  to  him,  duty  must  always  be  a  hard  and  difficult 
struggle  ;  and  he  said  laughingly  :  '  Whenever  a  man  says,  "  I 
have  done  my  duty,"  it  is  with  a  long  face  and  a  mournful  sigh.' 

"  Ah,  how  devoutly  I  listened  to  the  Englishman  !  How 
harshly  the  Frenchman's  irony  jarred  upon  my  ears  !  And  yet 
now,  in  the  duty  that  life  imposes  on  me,  to  fulfil  which  I 
strain  every  power  vouchsafed  to  my  nature,  and  seek  to  crush 
down  every  impulse  that  rebels,  where  is  the  promised  calm  ? — 
where  any  approach  to  the  content  of  achievement  ?  Con- 
templating the  way  before  me,  the  Beautiful  even  of  Art  has 
vanished.  I  see  but  cloud  and  desert.  Can  this  which  I 


510  ^  THE    PARISIANS. 

assume  to  be  duty  really  be  so  ?     Ah,  is  it  not  sin  even  to  ask 
my  heart  that  question  ? 

*          _  *  *  *  *  *  * 

"  Madame  Rameau  is  very  angry  with  her  son  for  his  neglect 
both  of  his  parents  and  of  me.  1  have  had  to  take  his  part 
against  her.  1  would  not  have  him  lose  their  love.  Poor 
Gustave  !  But  when  Madame  Rameau  suddenly  said  to-day  : 
'  I  erred  in  seeking  the  union  between  thee  and  Gustave.  Re- 
tract thy  promise  ;  in  doing  so  thou  wilt  be  justified,' — oh,  the 
strange  joy  that  flashed  upon  me  as  she  spoke.  Am  I  justified  ? 
Am  I  ?  Oh,  if  that  Englishman  had  never  crossed  my  path  ! 
Oh,  if  I  had  never  loved  !  Or  if  in  the  last  time  we  met  he 
had  not  asked  for  my  love,  and  confessed  his  own  !  Then,  I 
think,  1  could  honestly  reconcile  my  conscience  with  my  long- 
ings, and  say  to  Gustave  :  '  We  do  not  suit  each  other  ;  be  we 
both  released  ! '  But  now — is  it  that  Gustave  is  really  changed 
from  what  he  was,  when  in  despondence  at  my  own  lot,  and  in 
pitying  belief  that  I  might  brighten  and  exalt  his,  I  plighted 
my  troth  to  him  ?  Or  is  it  not  rather  that  the  choice  I  thus 
voluntarily  made  became  so  intolerable  a  thought  the  moment 
I  knew  I  was  beloved  and  sought  by  another  ;  and  from  that 
moment  I  lost  the  strength  I  had  before — strength  to  silence 
the  voice  at  my  own  heart  ?  What  !  is  it  the  image  of  that 
other  one  which  is  persuading  me  to  be  false  ? — to  exaggerate 
the  failings,  to  be  blind  to  the  merits  of  him  who  has  a  right 
to  say,  '  I  am  what  I  was  when  thou  didst  pledge  thyself  to 
take  me  for  better  or  for  worse  '  ? 


"  Gustave  has  been  here  after  an  absence  of  several  days. 
He  was  not  alone.  The  good  Abb£  Vertpre  and  Madame  de 
Vandemar,  with  her  son,  Raoul,  were  present.  They  had 
come  on  matters  connected  with  our  ambulance.  They  do 
not  know  of  my  engagement  to  Gustave  ;  and  seeing  him  in 
the  uniform  of  a  National  Guard,  the  Abbe  courteously  ad- 
dressed to  him  some  questions  as  to  the  possibility  of  checking 
the  terrible  increase  of  the  vice  of  intoxication,  so  alien  till  of 
late  to  the  habits  of  the  Parisians,  and  becoming  fatal  to  dis- 
cipline and  bodily  endurance — could  the  number  of  the  cantines 
on  the  ramparts  be  more  limited  ?  Gustave  answered  with 
rudeness  and  bitter  sarcasm  :  '  Before  priests  could  be  critics 
in  military  matters  they  must  undertake  military  service  them- 
selves.' 

"  The  Abbe"  replied  with  unalterable  good-humor  :     But  in 


THE    PARISIANS.  51! 

order  to  criticise  the  effects  of  drunkenness,  must  one  get 
drunk  one's-self?'  Gustave  was  put  out,  and  retired  into  a 
corner  of  the  room,  keeping  sullen  silence  till  my  other  visitors 
left. 

"  Then  before  I  could  myself  express  the  pain  his  words 
and  manner  had  given  me,  he  said  abruptly  :  '  I  wonder  how 
you  can  tolerate  the  tartufe/ie  which  may  amuse  on  the  comic 
stage,  but  in  the  tragedy  of  these  times  is  revolting.'  This 
speech  roused  my  anger,  and  the  conversation  that  ensued  was 
the  gravest  that  had  ever  passed  between  us. 

"  If  Gustave  were  of  stronger  nature  and  more  concentrated 
will,  I  believe  that  the  only  feelings  I  should  have  for  him 
would  be  antipathy  and  dread.  But  it  is  his  very  weaknesses 
and  inconsistencies  that  secure  to  him  a  certain  tenderness  of 
interest.  I  think  he  could  never  be  judged  without  great 
indulgence  by  women  ;  there  is  in  him  so  much  of  the  child, — 
wayward,  irritating  at  one  moment,  and  the  next  penitent, 
affectionate.  One  feels  as  if  persistence  in  evil  were  impossible 
to  one  so  delicate  both  in  mind  and  form.  That  peculiar 
order  of  genius  to  which  he  belongs  seems  as  if  it  ought  to  be 
so  estranged  from  all  directions,  violent  or  coarse.  When  in 
poetry  he  seeks  to  utter  some  audacious  and  defying  sentiment, 
the  substance  melts  away  in  daintiness  of  expression,  in  soft, 
lute-like  strains  of  slender  music.  And  when  he  has  stung, 
angered,  revolted  my  heart  the  most,  suddenly  he  subsides  into 
such  pathetic  gentleness,  such  tearful  remorse,  that  I  feel  as  if 
resentment  to  one  so  helpless,  desertion  of  one  who  must  fall 
without  the  support  of  a  friendly  hand,  were  a  selfish  cruelty. 
It  seems  to  me  as  if  I  were  dragged  towards  a  precipice  by  a 
sickly  child  clinging  to  my  robe. 

"  But  in  this  last  conversation  with  him,  his  language  in 
regard  to  subjects  I  hold  most  sacred  drew  forth  from  me 
words  which  startled  him,  and  which  may  avail  to  save  him  from 
that  worst  insanity  of  human  minds, — the  mimicry  of  the 
Titans  who  would  have  dethroned  a  God  to  restore  a  chaos.  I 
told  him  frankly  that  I  had  only  promised  to  share  his  fate,  on 
my  faith  in  his  assurance  of  my  power  to  guide  it  heavenward  ; 
and  that  if  the  opinions  he  announced  were  seriously  enter- 
tained, and  put  forth  in  defiance  of  Heaven  itself,  we  were  sep- 
arated forever.  I  told  him  how  earnestly,  in  the  calamities  of 
the  time,  my  own  soul  had  sought  to  take  refuge  in  thoughts 
and  hopes  beyond  the  earth  ;  and  how  deeply  many  a  senti- 
ment that  in  former  days  passed  by  me  with  a  smile  in  the 
light  talk  of  the  salons,  now  shocked  me  as  an  outrage  on  the 


512  THE    PARISIANS. 

reverence  which  the  mortal  child  owes  to  the  Divine  Father. 
1  owned  to  him  how  much  of  comfort,  of  sustainment,  of 
thought  and  aspiration,  elevated  beyond  the  sphere  of  art  in 
which  I  had  hitherto  sought  the  purest  air,  the  loftiest  goal,  I 
owed  to  intercourse  with  minds  like  those  of  the  Abbe  de 
Vertpre  ;  and  how  painfully  I  felt  as  if  I  were  guilty  of  ingrat- 
itude when  he  compelled  me  to  listen  to  insults  on  those  whom 
I  recognized  as  benefactors. 

"I  wished  to  speak  sternly;  but  it  is  my  great  misfortune, 
my  prevalent  weakness,  that  I  cannot  be  stern  when  I  ought 
to  be.  It  is  with  me  in  life  as  in  art.  I  never  could  on  the 
stage  have  taken  the  part  of  a  Norma  or  a  Medea.  If  I  at- 
tempt in  fiction  a  character  which  deserves  condemnation,  I  am 
untrue  to  poetic  justice.  I  cannot  condemn  and  execute  ;  I 
can  but  compassionate  and  pardon  the  creature  I  myself  have 
created.  I  was  never  in  the  real  world  stern  but  to  one  ;  and 
then,  alas  !  it  was  because  I  loved  where  I  could  no  longer 
love  with  honor  ;  and  I,  knowing  my  weakness,  had  terror  lest 
I  should  yield. 

"  So  Gustave  did  not  comprehend  from  my  voice,  my  man- 
ner, how  gravely  I  was  in  earnest.  But,  himself  softened, 
affected  to  tears,  he  confessed  his  own  faults,  ceased  to  argue 
in  order  to  praise  ;  and — and — uttering  protestations  seemingly 
the  most  sincere,  he  left  me  bound  to  him  still — bound  to  him 
still — woe  is  me  !  " 

It  is  true  that  Isaura  had  come  more  directly  under  the 
influence  of  religion  than  she  had  been  in  the  earlier  dates  of 
this  narrative.  There  is  a  time  in  the  lives  of  most  of  us,  and 
especially  in  the  lives  of  women,  when  despondent  of  all  joy  in 
an  earthly  future,  and  tortured  by  conflicts  between  inclination 
and  duty,  we  transfer  all  the  passion  and  fervor  of  our  troubled 
souls  to  enthusiastic  yearning,  for  the  Divine  Love  ;  seeking  to 
rebaptize  ourselves  in  the  fountain  of  its  mercy,  taking  thence 
the  only  hopes  that  can  cheer,  the  only  strength  that  can  sus- 
tain us.  Such  a  time  had  come  to  Isaura.  Formerly  she  had 
escaped  from  the  griefs  of  the  workday  world  into  the  garden- 
land  of  Art.  Now,  Art  had  grown  unwelcome  to  her,  almost 
hateful.  Gone  was  the  spell  from  the  garden-land  ;  its  flowers 
were  faded,  its  paths  were  stony,  its  sunshine  had  vanished  in 
mist  and  rain.  There  are  two  voices  of  Nature  in  the  soul  of 
the  genuine  artist  ;  that  is,  of  him  who,  because  he  can  create, 
comprehends  the  necessity  of  the  great  Creator.  Those  voices 
are  never  both  silent.  When  one  is  hushed,  the  other  becomes 


THE    PARISIANS.  513 

distinctly  audible.  The  one  speaks  to  him  of  Art,  the  other 
of  Religion. 

At  that  period  several  societies  for  the  relief  and  tendance 
of  the  wounded  had  been  formed  by  the  women  of  Paris — the 
earliest,  if  I  mistake  not,  by  ladies  of  the  highest  rank — 
amongst  whom  were  the  Comtesse  de  Vandemar  and  the  Con- 
tessa  di  Rimini — though  it  necessarily  included  others  of  sta- 
tions less  elevated.  To  this  society,  at  the  request  of  Alain  de 
Rochebriant  and  of  Enguerrand,  Isaura  had  eagerly  attached 
herself.  It  occupied  much  of  her  time  ;  and  in  connection 
with  it  she  was  brought  much  into  sympathetic  acquaintance 
with  Raoul  de  Vandemar,  the  most  zealous  and  active  member 
of  that  society  of  St.  Francois  de  Sales,  to  which- belonged  other 
young  nobles  of  the  Legitimist  creed.  The  passion  of  Raoul's 
life  was  the  relief  of  human  suffering.  In  him  was  personified 
the  ideal  of  Christian  charity.  I  think  all,  or  most  of  us,  have 
known  what  it  is  to  pass  under  the  influence  of  a  nature  that  is 
so  far  akin  to  ours  that  it  desires  to  become  something  better 
and  higher  than  it  is — that  desire  being  paramount  in  ourselves — 
but  seeks  to  be  that  something  in  ways  not  akin  to,  but  remote 
from,  the  ways  in  which  we  seek  it.  When  this  contact  hap- 
pens, either  one  nature,  by  the  mere  force  of  will,  subjugates 
and  absorbs  the  other,  or  both,  while  preserving  their  own  indi- 
viduality, apart  and  independent,  enrich  themselves  by  mutual 
interchange,  and  the  asperities  which  differences  of  taste  and 
sentiment  in  detail  might  otherwise  provoke  melt  in  the  sym- 
pathy which  unites  spirits  striving  with  equal  earnestness  to  rise 
nearer  to  the  unseen  and  unattainable  Source,  which  they 
equally  recognize  as  Divine. 

Perhaps,  had  these  two  persons  met  a  year  ago  in  the  ordi- 
nary intercourse  of  the  world,  neither  would  have  detected  the 
sympathy  of  which  I  speak.  Raoul  was  not  without  the  prej- 
udice against  artists  and  writers  of  romance  that  are  shared  by 
many  who  cherish  the  persuasion  that  all  is  vanity  which  does 
not  concentrate  imagination  and  intellect  in  the  destinies  of 
the  soul  hereafter  ;  and  Isaura  might  have  excited  his  compas- 
sion, certainly  not  his  reverence.  While  to  her,  his  views  on 
all  that  seeks  to  render  the  actual  life  attractive  and  embellished, 
through  the  accomplishments  of  Muse  and  Grace,  would  have 
seemed  the  narrow-minded  asceticism  of  a  bigot.  But  now, 
amid  the  direful  calamities  of  the  time,  the  beauty  of  both 
natures  became  visible  to  each.  To  the  eyes  of  Isaura,  tender- 
ness became  predominant  in  the  monastic  self-denial  of  Raoul. 
To  the  eyes  of  Raoul,  devotion  became  predominant  in  the 


514  THE    PARISIANS. 

gentle  thoughtfulness  of  Isaura.  Their  intercourse  was  m 
ambulance  and  hospital,  in  care  for  the  wounded,  in  prayer  for 
the  dying.  Ah  !  it  is  easy  to  declaim  against  the  frivolities 
and  vices  of  Parisian  society  as  it  appears  on  the  surface  ;  and, 
in  revolutionary  times,  it  is  the  very  worst  of  Paris  that  ascends 
in  scum  to  the  top.  «  But  descend  below  the  surface,  even  in 
that  demoralizing  suspense  of  order,  and  nowhere  on  earth 
might  the  angel  have  beheld  the  image  of  humanity  more  amply 
vindicating  its  claim  to  the  heritage  of  heaven. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

THE  warning  announcement  of  some  great  effort  on  the  part 
of  the  besieged,  which  Alain  had  given  to  Lemercier,  was  soon 
to  be  fulfilled. 

For  some  days  the  principal  thoroughfares  were  ominously 
lin.ed  with  military  convois.  The  loungers  on  the  Boulevards 
stopped  to  gaze  on  the  long  defiles  of  troops  and  cannon,  com- 
missariat conveyances,  and,  saddening  accompaniments  !  the 
vehicles  of  various  ambulances  for  the  removal  of  the  wounded. 
With  what  glee  the  loungers  said  to  each  other,  "  En  fin!" 
Among  all  the  troops  that  Paris  sent  forth,  none  were  so  pop- 
ular as  those  which  Paris  had  not  nurtured,  the  sailors.  From 
the  moment  they  arrived,  the  sailors  had  been  the  pets  of  the 
capital.  They  soon  proved  themselves  the  most  notable  con- 
trast to  that  force  which  Paris  herself  had  produced,  the 
National  Guard.  Their  frames  were  hardy,  their  habits  active, 
their  discipline  perfect,  their  manners  mild  and  polite.  "  Oh, 
if  all  our  troops  were  like  these  !  "  was  the  common  exclama- 
tion of  the  Parisians. 

At  last  burst  forth  upon  Paris  the  proclamations  of  General 
Trochu  and  General  Ducrot  ;  the  first  brief,  calm,  and  Breton- 
like,  ending  with  "  Putting  our  trust  in  God.  March  on  for 
our  country";  the  second  more  detailed,  more  candidly  stating 
obstacles  and  difficulties,  but  fiery  with  eloquent  enthusiasm, 
not  unsupported  by  military  statistics,  in  the  400  cannon,  two- 
thirds  of  which  were  of  the  largest  calibre,  that  no  material 
object  could  resist;  more  than  150,000  soldiers,  all  well  armed, 
well  equipped,  abundantly  provided  with  munitions,  and  all 
(j'enairespoir)  animated  by  an  irresistible  ardor.  "  For  me," 
concludes  the  General,  "  I  am  resolved.  I  swear  before  you, 
before  the  whole  nation,  that  I  will  not  re-enter  Paris  except 
as  dead  or  victorious." 


THE    PARISIANS.  515 

At  these  proclamations,  who  then  at  Paris  does  not  recall 
the  burst  of  enthusiasm  that  stirred  the  surface  ?  Trochu 
became  once  more  popular  ;  even  the  Communistic  or  athe- 
istic journals  refrained  from  complaining  that  he  attended 
mass,  and  invited  his  countrymen  to  trust  in  a  God.  Ducrot 
was  more  than  popular,  he  was  adored. 

The  several  companies  in  which  De  Maule"on  and  Euguer- 
rand  served  departed  towards  their  post  early  on  the  same 
morning,  that  of  the  28th.  All  the  previous  night,  while 
Enguerrand  was  buried  in  profound  slumber,  Raoul  remained 
in  his  brother's  room  ;  sometimes  on  his  knees  before  the  ivory 
crucifix,  which  had  been  their  mother's  last  birthday  gift  to  her 
youngest  son  ;  sometimes  seated  beside  the  bed  in  profound 
and  devout  meditation.  At  daybreak,  Madame  de  Vandemar 
stole  into  the  chamber.  Unconscious  of  his  brother's  watch, 
he  had  asked  her  to  wake  him  in  goo'd  time^for  the  young  man 
was  a  sound  sleeper.  Shading  the  candle  she  bore  with  one 
hand,  with  the  other  she  drew  aside  the  curtain,  and  looked 
at  Enguerrand's  calm,  fair  face,  its  lips  parted  in  the  happy 
smile  which  seemed  to  carry  joy  with  it  wherever  its  sunshine 
played.  Her  tears  fell  noiselessly  on  her  darling's  cheek  ;  she 
then  knelt  down  and  prayed  for  strength.  As  she  rose  she  felt 
Raoul's  arm  around  her  ;  they  looked  at  each  other  in  silence  ; 
then  she  "bowed  her  head  and  wakened  Enguerrand  with  her 
lips.  "Pas  de  querelle,  mes  amis,"  he  murmured,  opening  his 
sweet  blue  eyes  drowsily.  "  Ah,  it  was  a  dream  !  I  thought 
Jules  and  Emile  (two  young  friends  of  his)  were  worrying 
each  other  ;  and  you  know,  dear  Raoul,  that  I  am  the  most 
officious  of  peacemakers.  Time  to  rise,  is  it  ?  No  peacemak- 
ing to  day.  Kiss  me  again,  mother,  and  say  'Bless  thee.'  " 

"Bless  thee,  bless  thee,  my  child,"  cried  the  mother,  wrap- 
ping her  arms  passionately  round  him,  and  in  tones  choked 
with  sobs. 

"  Now  leave  me,  ma  man"  said  Enguerrand,  resorting  to  the 
infantine  ordinary  name,  which  he  had  not  used  for  years. 
"  Raoul,  stay  and  help  me  to  dress.  I  must  \fetrtsbeav  to-day. 
I  shall  join  thee  at  breakfast,  maman.  Early  for  such  repast, 
but  I'appetit  vient  en  mangeant.  Mind  the  coffee  is  hot." 

Enguerrand,  always  careful  of  each  detail  of  dress,  was 
especially  so  that  morning,  and  especially  gay  humming  the 
old  air,  "  Partant  pour  la  Syrie."  But  his  gayety  was  checked 
when  Raoul,  taking  from  his  breast  a  holy  talisman,  which  he 
habitually  wore  there,  suspended  it  with  loving  hands  round 
his  brother's  neck.  It  was  a  small  crystal  set  in  Byzantine  fila- 


516  THE    PARISIANS. 

gree  ;  inbedded  in  it  was  a  small  splinter  of  wood,  said  by 
pious  tradition  to  be  a  relic  of  the  Divine  Cross.  It  had  been 
for  centuries  in  the  family  of  the  Contessa  di  Rimini,  and  was 
given  by  her  to  Raoul,  the  only  gift  she  had  ever  made  him,  as 
an  emblem  of  the  sinless  purity  of  the  affection  that  united 
those  two  souls  in  the  bonds  of  the  beautiful  belief. 

"  She  bade  me  transfer  it  to  thee  to-day,  my  brother,"  said 
Raoul  simply  ;  "  and  now  without  a  pang  I  can  gird  on  thee 
thy  soldier's  sword." 

Enguerrand  clasped  his  brother  in  his  arms,  and  kissed 
him  with  passionate  fervor.  "Oh,  Raoul!  how  I  love  thee  ! 
how  good  thou  hast  ever  been  to  me  !  How  many  sins  thou 
hast  saved  me  from  !  How  indulgent  thou  hast  been  to  those 
from  which  thou  couldst  not  save  !  Think  on  that,  my  brother, 
in  case  we  do  not  meet  again  on  earth." 

"  Hush,  hush,  Enguerrand  !  No  gloomy  forebodings  now  ! 
Come,  come  hither,*my  half  of  life,  my  sunny  half  of  life  !  "  and 
uttering  these  words,  he  led  Enguerrand  towards  the  crucifix, 
and  there,  in  deeper  and  more  solemn  voice,  said,  "  Let  us 
pray."  So  the  brothers  knelt  side  by  side,  and  Raoul  prayed 
aloud  as  only  such  souls  can  pray. 

When  they  descended  into  the  salon  where  breakfast  was  set 
out,  they  found  assembled  several  of  their  relations,  and  some 
of  Enguerrand's  young  friends  not  engaged  in  the  sortie.  One 
or  two  of  the  latter,  indeed,  were  disabled  from  fighting  by 
wounds  in  former  fields  ;  they  left  their  sick-beds  to  bid  him 
good-bye.  Unspeakable  was  the  affection  this  genial  nature 
inspired  in  all  who  came  into  the  circle  of  its  winning  magic  ; 
and  when,  tearing  himself  from  them,  he  descended  the  stair, 
and  passed  with  light  step  through  the  porte  cochere,  there  was 
a  crowd  around  the  house — so  widely  had  his  popularity  spread 
among  even  the  lower  classes,  from  which  the  Mobiles  in  his 
regiment  were  chiefly  composed.  He  departed  to  the  place  of 
rendezvous  amid  a  chorus  of  exhilarating  cheers. 

Not  thus  lovingly  tended  on,  not  thus  cordially  greeted,  was 
that  equal  idol  of  a  former  generation,  Victor  de  Mauleon. 
No  pious  friend  prayed  beside  his  couch,  no  loving  kiss  waked 
him  from  his  slumbers.  At  the  gray  of  the  November  dawn 
he  rose  from  a  sleep  which  had  no  smiling  dreams,  with  that 
mysterious  instinct  of  punctual  will  which  cannot  even  go  to 
sleep  without  fixing  beforehand  the  exact  moment  in  which 
sleep  shall  end.  He,  too,  like  Enguerrand,  dressed  himself 
with  care — unlike  Enguerrand,  with  care  strictly  soldier-like. 
Then,  seeing  he  had  some  little  time  yet  before  him,  he 


THE    PARISIANS.  517 

rapidly  revisited  pigeon-holes  and  drawers,  in  which  might  be 
found  by  prying  eyes  anything  he  would  deny  to  their  curiosity. 
All  that  he  found  of  this  sort  were  some  letters  in  female 
handwriting,  tied  together  with  faded  ribbon,  relics  of  earlier 
days,  and  treasured  throughout  later  vicissitudes  ;  letters  from 
the  English  girl  to  whom  he  had  briefly  referred  in  his  con- 
fession to  Louvier — the  only  girl  he  had  ever  wooed  as  his 
wife.  She  was  the  only  daughter  of  high-born  Roman 
Catholics,  residing  at  the  time  of  his  youth  in  Paris.  Reluct- 
antly they  had  assented  to  his  proposals  ;  joyfully  they  had 
retracted  their  assent  when  his  affairs  had  become  so  involved  ; 
yet  possibly  the  motive  that  led  him  to  his  most  ruinous 
excesses,  the  gambling  of  the  turf,  had  been  caused  by  the  wild 
hope  of  a  nature,  then  fatally  sanguine,  to  retrieve  the  fortune 
that  might  suffice  to  satisfy  the  parents.  But  during  his  per- 
mitted courtship  the  lovers  had  corresponded.  Her  letters 
were  full  of  warm,  if  innocent,  tenderness — till  came  the  last 
cold  farewell.  The  family  had  long  ago  returned  to  England  ; 
he  concluded,  of  course,  that  she  had  married  another. 

Near  to  these  letters  lay  the  papers  which  had  served  to 
vindicate  his  honor  in  that  old  affair,  in  which  the  unsought 
love  of  another  had  brought  on  him  shame  and  affliction. 
As  his  eye  fell  on  the  last,  he  muttered  to  himself:  "I  kept 
these,  to  clear  my  repute.  Can  I  keep  those,  when,  if  found, 
they  might  compromise  the  repute  of  her  who  might  have 
been  my  wife  had  I  been  worthy  of  her  ?  She  is  doubtless 
now  another's  ;  or,  if  dead — honor  -never  dies."  He  pressed 
his  lips  to  the  letters  with  a  passionate,  lingering,mournful  kiss  : 
then,  raking  up  the  ashes  of  yesterday's  fire,  and  rekindling 
them,  he  placed  thereon  those  leaves  of  a  melancholy  romance 
in  his  past,  and  watched  them  slowly,  reluctantly  smoulder 
away  into  tinder.  Then  he  opened  a  drawer  in  which  lay  the 
only  paper  of  a  political  character  which  he  had  preserved. 
All  that  related  to  plots  or  conspiracies  in  which  his  agency 
had  committed  others,  it  was  his  habit  to  destroy  as  soon  as 
received.  For  the  sole  document  thus  treasured  he  alone  was 
responsible  ;  it  was  an  outline  of  his  ideal  for  the  future  con- 
stitution of  France,  accompanied  with  elaborate  arguments, 
the  heads  of  which  his  conversation  with  the  Incognito  made 
known  to  the  reader.  Of  the  soundness  of  this  political  pro- 
gramme, whatever  its  merits  or  faults  (a  question  on  which  I 
presume  no  judgment),  he  had  an  intense  conviction.  He 
glanced  rapidly  over  its  contents,  did  not  alter  a  word,  sealed 
it  up  in  an  envelope,  inscribed,  "  My  Legacy  to  my  Country- 


518  THE    PARISIANS. 

men."  The  papers  refuting  a  calumny  relating  solely  to  him- 
self he  carried  into  the  battle-field,  placed  next  to  his  heart — 
significant  of  a  Frenchman's  love  of  honor  in  this  world — as  the 
relic  placed  around  the  neck  of  Enguerrand  by  his  pious 
brother  was  emblematic  of  the  Christian  hope  of  mercy  in  the 
next. 

CHAPTER   XVIII. 

THE  streets  swarmed  with  the  populace  gazing  on  the  troops 
as  they  passed  to  their  destination.  Among  those  of  the 
Mobiles  who  especially  caught  the  eye  were  two  companies  in 
which  Enguerrand  de  Vandemar  and  Victor  de  Mauleon  com- 
manded. In  the  first  were  many  young  men  of  good  family, 
or  in  the  higher  ranks  of  the  bourgeoisie,  known  to  numerous 
lookers-on  ;  there  was  something  inspiriting  in  their  gay  aspects, 
and  in  the  easy  carelessness  of  their  march.  Mixed  with  this 
company,  however,  and  forming  of  course  the  bulk  of  it,  were 
those  who  belonged  to  the  lower  classes  of  the  population  ;  and 
though  they  too  might  seem  gay  to  an  ordinary  observer,  the 
gayety  was  forced.  Many  of  them  were  evidently  not  quite 
sober ;  and  there  was  a  disorderly  want  of  soldiership  in  their 
mien  and  armament  which  inspired  distrust  among  such  vieil.'es 
moustaches  as,  too  old  for  other  service  than  that  of  the  ram- 
parts, mixed  here  and  there  among  the  crowd. 

But  when  De  Mauleon's  company  passed,  the  vieillcs  mous- 
taches impulsively  touched  each  other.  They  recognized  the 
march  of  well-drilled  men  ;  the  countenances  grave  and  severe, 
the  eyes  not  looking  on  this  side  and  that  for  admiration,  the 
step  regularly  timed  ;  and  conspicuous  among  these  men  the 
tall  stature  and  calm  front  of  their  leader. 

"These  fellows  will  fight  well,"  growled  a  vieillcs  moustache : 
"Where  did  they  fish  out  their  leader  ?  " 

"  Don't  you  know  ?  "  said  a  bourgeois.  "  Victor  de  Mauleon. 
He  won  the  cross  in  Algeria  for  bravery.  I  recollect  him  when 
I  was  very  young  ;  the  very  devil  for  women  and  fighting." 

"  I  wish  there  were  more  such  devils  for  fighting  and  fewer 
for  women,"  growled  again  la  viei/le  moustache. 

One  incessant  roar  of  cannon  all  the  night  of  the  29th.  The 
populace  had  learned  the  names  of  the  French  cannons,  and 
fancied  they  could  distinguish  the  several  sounds  of  their  thun- 
der. "There  spits  'Josephine'!"  shouts  an  invalid  sailor. 
"There  howls  our  own  'Populace'  !"*  cries  a  Red  Republi- 

*  The  "  Populace  "  had  been  contiibuted  to  the  artillery,  sou  k  sou,  by  the  working  class. 


THE   PARISIANS,  519 

can  from  Belleville.  "  There  sings  '  Le  Chatiment ' !  "  laughed 
Gustave  Rameau,  who  was  now  become  an  enthusiastic  admirer 
of  the  Victor  Hugo  he  had  before  affected  to  despise.  And 
all  the  while,  mingled  with  the  roar  of  the  cannon,  came,  far 
and  near,  from  the  streets,  from  the  ramparts,  the  gusts  of 
song — song  sometimes  heroic,  sometimes  obscene,  more  often 
carelessly  joyous.  The  news  of  General  Vinoy's  success  during 
the  early  part  of  the  day  had  been  damped  by  the  evening 
report  of  Ducrot's  delay  in  crossing  the  swollen  Marne.  But 
the  spirits  of  the  Parisians  rallied  from  a  momentary  depres- 
sion on  ,the  excitement  at  night  of  that  concert  of  martial 
music. 

During  that  night,  close  under  the  guns  of  the  double  re- 
doubt of  Gravelle  and  La  Faisanderie,  eight  pontoon  bridges 
were  thrown  over  the  Marne  ;  and  at  daybreak  the  first  column 
of  the  third  army  under  Blanchard  and  Renoult  crossed  with 
all  their  artillery,  and,  covered  by  the  fire  of  the  double  re- 
doubts, of  the  forts  of  Vincennes,  Nogent,  Rossney,  and  the 
batteries  of  Mont  Avron,  had  an  hour  before  noon  carried  the 
village  of  Champigny,  and  the  first  Echelon  of  the  important 
plateau  of  Villiers,  and  were  already  commencing  the  work  of 
intrenchment,  when,  rallying  from  the  amaze  of  a  defeat,  the 
German  forces  burst  upon  them,  sustained  by  fresh  batteries. 
The  Prussian  pieces  of  artillery  established  at  Chennevieres 
and  at  Neuilly  opened  fire  with  deadly  execution  ;  while  a  nu- 
merous infantry,  descending  from  the  intrenchments  of  Villiers, 
charged  upon  the  troops  under  Renoult.  Among  the  French 
in  that  strife  were  Enguerrand  and  the  Mobiles  of  which  he 
was  in  command.  Dismayed  by  the  unexpected  fire,  these 
Mobiles  gave  way,  as  indeed  did  many  of  the  line.  Enguer- 
rand rushed  forward  to  the  front  :  "  On,  nies  cnfants,  on  ! 
What  will  our  mothers  and  wives  say  of  us  if  we  fly  ?  Vive  la 
France  ! — On  !  "  Among  those  of  the  better  classin  that  com- 
pany there  rose  a  shout  of  applause,  but  it  found  no  sympathy 
among  the  rest.  They  wavered,  they  turned.  "  Will  you  suf- 
fer me  to  go  on  alone,  countrymen  ?  "  cried  Enguerrand,  and 
alone  he  rushed  on  towards  the  Prussian  line — rushed  and  fell, 
mortally  wounded  by  a  musket-ball.  "  Revenge,  revenge  !  " 
shouted  some  of  the  foremost ;  "  Revenge  !  "  shouted  those  in 
the  rear ;  and,  so  shouting,  turned  on  their  heels  and  fled. 
But  ere  they  could  disperse,  they  encountered  the  march, 
steadfast  though  rapid,  of  the  troop  led  by  Victor  de  Mauleon. 
"  Poltroons  !  "  he  thundered,  with  the  sonorous  depth  of  his 
strong  voice,  "  halt  and  turn,  or  my  men  shall  fire  on  you  as 


520  THE    PARISIANS. 

deserters."  "  Vas,  citoyen"  said  one  fugitive,  an  officer,  popu- 
larly elected,  because  he  was  the  loudest  brawler  in  the  club  of 
the  Salle  Favre  ;  we  have  seen  him  before — Charles,  the 
brother  of  Armand  Monnier  :  "  men  can't  fight  when  they  de- 
spise their  generals.  It  is  our  generals  who  are  poltroons  and 
fools  both." 

"  Carry  my  answer  to  the  ghosts  of  cowards, "cried  De  Mau- 
leon,  and  shot  the  man  dead. 

His  followers,  startled  and  cowed  by  the  deed,  and  the  voice 
and  the  look  of  the  death-giver,  halted.  The  officers,  who  had 
at  first  yielded  to  the  panic  of  their  men,  took  fresh  courage, 
and  finally  led  the  bulk  of -the  troop  back  to  their  post, "  enlere's 
a  la  baiionnette"  to  use  the  phrase  of  a  candid  historian  of  that 
day. 

Day,  on  the  whole,  not  inglorious  to  France.  It  was  the  first, 
if  it  was  the  last,  really  important  success  of  the  besieged. 
They  remained  masters  of  the  ground,  the  Prussians  leaving  to 
them  the  wounded  and  the  dead. 

That  night  what  crowds  thronged  from  Paris  to  the  top  of 
the  Montmartre  heights,  from  the  observatory  on  which  the 
celebrated  inventor  Bazin  had  lighted  up,  with  some  magical 
electric  machine,  all  the  plain  of  Gennevilliers  from  Mont  Va- 
lerien  to  the  Fort  de  la  Briche  !  The  splendor  of  the  blaze 
wrapped  the  great  city  ;  distinctly  above  the  roofs  of  the  houses 
soared  the  Dome  des  Invalides,  the  spires  of  Notre  Dame,  the 
giant  turrets  of  the  Tuileries  ;  and  died  away  on  resting  on 
the  infames  scapulas  Acroceraunia,  the  "  thunder  crags"  of  the 
heights  occupied  by  the  invading  army. 

Lemercier,  De  Breze,  and   the  elder  Rameau,  who,  despite 

his  peaceful  habits  and  gray  hairs,  insisted  on  joining  in  the 

aid  of  la patrie,  were  among  the  National  Guards  attached  to 

the  Fort  de  la  Briche  and  the  neighboring  eminence,  and  they 

.  met  in  conversation. 

"  What  a  victory  we  have  had  ! "  said  the  old  Rameau. 

"  Rather  mortifying  to  your  son,  M.  Rameau,"  said  Lemer- 
cier. 

"  Mortifying  to  my  son,  sir  ! — the  victory  of  his  countrymen. 
What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  I  had  the  honor  to  hear  M.  Gustave  the  other  night  at  the 
club  de  la  Vengeance" 

" Son  Dicu  !  do  you  frequent  those  tragic  reunions?"  asked 
De  Breze". 

"They  are  not  at  all  tragic  ;  they  are  the  only  comedies  left 
us,  as  one  must  amuse  one's-self  somewhere,  and  the  club  de  la 


THE   PARISIANS.  52! 

Vengeance  is  the  prettiest  thing  of  the  sort  going.  I  quite 
understand  why  it  should  fascinate  a  poet  like  your  son,  M. 
Rameau.  It  is  held  in  a  salle  de  cafe  chantant — style  Louis 
Quinze — decorated  with  a  pastoral  scene  from  Watteau.  I  and 
my  dog  Fox  drop  in.  We  hear  your  son  haranguing.  In 
what  poetic  sentences  he  despaired  of  the  Republic  !  The 
government  (he  called  them  les  charlatans  de  I  Hotel  de  VUle) 
were  imbeciles.  They  pretended  to  inaugurate  a  revolution, 
and  did  not  employ  the  most  obvious  of  revolutionary  means. 
There  Fox  and  I  pricked  up  our  ears  •  what  were  those  means  ? 
Your  son  proceeded  to  explain  :'  '  A/1  mankind  were  to  be 
appealed  to  against  individual  interests.  The  commerce  of 
luxury  was  to  be  abolished  :  clearly  luxury  was  not  at  the  com- 
mand of  all  mankind.  Cafes  and  theatres  were  to  be  closed 
forever — all  mankind  could  not  go  to  cafes  and  theatres.  It 
was  idle  to  expect  the  masses  to  combine  for  anything  in  which 
the  masses  had  not  an  interest  in  common.  The  masses  had 
no  interest  in  any  property  that  did  not  belong  to  the  masses. 
Programmes  of  the  society  to  be  founded,  called  the  Ligue 
Cosmopolite  De'mocratique,  should  be  sent  at  once  into  all  the 
States  of  the  civilized  world — how  ?  by  balloons.  Money  cor- 
rupts the  world  as  now  composed  :  but  the  money  at  the  com- 
mand of  the  masses  could  buy  all  the  monarchs  and  courtiers 
and  priests  of  the  universe.'  At  that  sentiment,  vehemently 
delivered,  the  applauses  were  frantic,  and  Fox  in  his  excite- 
ment began  to  bark.  At  the  sound  of  his  bark  one  man  cried 
out,  'That's  a  Prussian!'  another:  'Down  with  the  spy!' 
another  :  '  There's  an  arista  present — he  keeps  alive  a  dog 
which  would  be  a  week's  meal  for  a  family  !  '  I  snatch  up 
Fox  at  the  last  cry,  and  clasp  him  to  a  bosom  protected  by 
the  uniform  of  the  National  Guard. 

"  When  the  hubbub  had  subsided,  your  son,  M.  Rameau, 
proceeded,  quitting  mankind  in  general,  and  arriving  at  the 
question  in  particular  most  interesting  to  his  audience — the 
mobilization  of  the  National  Guard  ;  that  is,  the  call  upon 
men  who  like  talking  and  hate  fighting  to  talk  less  and  fight 
more.  '  It  was  the  sheerest  tyranny  to  select  a  certain  number 
of  free  citizens  to  be  butchered  If  the  fight  was  for  the  mass, 
there  ought  to  be  la  leve"e  en  masse.  If  one  did  not  compel 
everybody  to  fight,  why  should  anybody  fight?'  Here  the 
applause  again  became  vehement,  and  Fox  again  became  indis- 
creet. I  subdued  Fox's  bark  into  a  squeak  by  pulling  his  ears. 
4  What !  '  cries  your  poet  ^on,  '  la  leve'e  en  masse  gives  us  fif- 
teen millions  of  soldiers,  with  which  we  could  crush,  not 


522  THE    PARISIANS. 

Prussia  alone,  but  the  whole  of  Europe.  (Immense  sensation.) 
Let  us,  then,  resolve  that  the  charlatans  of  the  Hotel  de  Ville 
are  incapable  of  delivering  us  from  the  Prussians  ;  that  they 
are  deposed  ;  that  the  Ligue  of  the  De'mocratie  Cosmopolite  is 
installed  ;  that  meanwhile  the  Commune  shall  be  voted  the 
Provisional  Government,  and  shall  order  the  Prussians  to 
retire  within  three  days  from  the  soil  of  Paris.' 

"  Pardon  me  this  long  description,  my  dear  M.  Rameau  ; 
but  I  trust  I  have  satisfactorily  explained  why  victory  obtained 
in  the  teeth  of  his  eloquent  opinions,  if  gratifying  to  him  as  a 
Frenchman,  must  be  mortifying  to  him  as  a  politician." 

The  old  Rameau  sighed,  hung  his  head,  and  crept  away. 

While,  amid  this  holiday  illumination,  the  Parisians  enjoyed 
the  panorama  before  them,  the  Freres  Chretiens  and  the  attend- 
ants of  the  various  ambulances  were  moving  along  the  battle- 
plains  ;  the  first  in  their  large-brimmed  hats  and  sable  garbs, 
the  last  in  strange,  motley  costume,  many  of  them  in  glittering 
uniform — all  alike  in  their  serene  indifference  to  danger  ;  often 
pausing  to  pick  up  among  the  dead  their  own  brethren  who 
had  been  slaughtered  in  the  midst  of  their  task.  Now  and 
then  came  on  sinister  forms  apparently  engaged  in  the  same 
duty  of  tending  the  wounded  and  dead,  but  in  truth  murder- 
ous plunderers,  to  whom  the  dead  and  the  dying  were  equal 
harvests.  Did  the  wounded  man  attempt  to  resist  the  foul 
hands  searching  for  their  spoil,  they  added  another  wound 
more  immediately  mortal,  grinning  as  they  completed  on  the 
dead  the  robbefy  they  had  commenced  on  the  dying. 

Raoul  de  Vandemar  had  been  all  the  earlier  part  of  the  day 
with  the  assistants  of  the  .ambulance  over  which  he  presided, 
attached  to  the  battalions  of  the  National  Guard  in  a  quarter 
remote  from  that  in  which  his  brother  had  fought  and  fallen. 
When  those  troops,  later  in  the  day,  were  driven  from  the 
Montmedy  plateau,  which  they  had  at  first  carried,  Raoul  re- 
passed  towards  the  plateau  at  Villiers,  on  which  the  dead 
lay  thickest.  On  the  way  he  heard  a  vague  report  of 
the  panic  which  had.dispersed  the  Mobiles  of  whom  Enguerrand 
was  in  command,  and  of  Enguerrand's  vain  attempt  to 
inspirit  them.  But  his  fate  was  not  known.  There,  at 
midnight,  Raoul  is  still  searching  among  the  ghastly  heaps 
and  pools  of  blood,  lighted  from  afar  by  the  blaze  from 
the  observatory  of  Montmartre,  and  more  near  at  hand  by  the 
bivouac  fires  extended  along  the^banks  to  the  left  of  the 
Marne,  while  everywhere  about  the  field  flitted  the  lanterns  of 
the  Frercs  Chrttiens.  Suddenly,  in  the  dimness  of  a  spot  cast 


THE    PARISIANS.  523 

into  shadow  by  an  incompleted  earthwork,  he  abserved  a  small, 
sinister  figure  perched  on  the  breast  of  some  wounded  soldier, 
evidently  not  to  succor.  He  sprang  forward  and  seized  a 
hideous-looking  urchin,  scarcely  twelve  years  old,  who  held  in 
one  hand  a  small  crystal  locket,  set  in  filigree  gold,  torn  from 
the  soldier's  breast,  and  lifted  high  in  the  other^a  long  case- 
knife.  At  a  glance  Raoul  recognized  the  holy  relic  he  had 
given  to  Enguerrand,  and,  flinging  the  precocious  murderer  to 
be  seized  by  his  assistants,  he  cast  himself  beside  his  brother. 
Enguerrand  still  breathed,  and  his  languid  eyes  brightened  as 
he  knew  the  dear  familiar  face.  He  tried  to  speak,  but  his 
voice  failed,  and  he  shook  his  head  sadly,  but  still  with  a  faint 
smile  on  his  lips.  They  lifted  him  tenderly,  and  placed  him 
on  a  litter.  The  movement,  gentle  as  it  was,  brought  back 
pain,  and  with  the  pain  strength  to  mutter  :  "  My  mother — I 
would  see  her  once  more." 

As  at  daybreak  the  loungers  on  Montmartre  and  the  ram- 
parts descended  into  the  streets — most  windows  in  which  were 
open,  as  they  had  been  all  night,  with  anxious  female  faces 
peering  palely  down — they  say  the  conveyances  of  the  ambu- 
lances coming  dismally  along,  and  many  an  eye  turned  wist- 
fully towards  the  litter  on  which  lay  the  idol  of  the  pleasure- 
loving  Paris,  with  the  dark,  bareheaded  figure  walking  beside 
it — onwards,  onwards,  till  it  reached  the  Hotel  de  Vandemar, 
and  a  woman's  cry  was  heard  at  the  entrance — the  mother's 
cry  :  "  My  son  !  my  son  ! " 


BOOK  XII. 


CHAPTER  I. 

THE  last  book  closed  with  the  success  of  the  Parisian  sortie 
onthe3oth  of  November,  to  be  followed  by  the  terrible  engage- 
ments, no  less  honorable  to  French  valor,  on  the  2d  of  De- 
cember. There  was  the  sanguine  belief  that  deliverance  was 
at  hand  ;  that  Trochu  would  break  through  the  circle  of  iron, 
and  effect  that  junction  with  the  army  of  Aurelles  de  Paladine 
which  would  compel  the  Germans  to  raise  the  investment — 
belief  rudely  shaken  by  Ducrot's  proclamation  of  the  4th,  to 
explain  the  recrossing  of  the  Marne,  and  the  abandonment  of 
the  positions  conquered,  but  not  altogether  dispelled  till  Von 


5 24  THE    PARISIANS. 

Moltke's  letter  to  Trochu  on  the  5th  announcing  the  defeat  of 
the  army  of  the  Loire  and  the  recapture  of  Orleans.  Even 
then  the  Parisians  did  not  lose  hope  of  succor ;  and  even  after 
the  desperate  and  fruitless  sortie  against  Le  Bourget  on  the 
2ist,  it  was  not  without  witticisms  on  defeat  and  predictions 
of  triumph,  that  Winter  and  Famine  settled  sullenly  on  the  city. 

Our  narrative  reopens  with  the  last  period  of  the  siege. 

It  was  during  these  dreadful  days,  that  if  the  vilest  and  the 
most  hideous  aspects  of  the  Parisian  population  showed  them- 
selves at  the  worst,  so  all  its  loveliest,  its  noblest,  its  holiest 
characteristics — unnoticed  by  ordinary  observers  in  the  pros- 
perous days  of  the  capital — became  conspicuously  prominent. 
The  higher  classes,  including  the  remnant  of  the  old  noblesse, 
had  during  the  whole  siege  exhibited  qualities  in  notable  con-- 
trast  to  those  assigned  them  by  the  enemies  of  aristocracy. 
Their  sons  had  been  foremost  among  those  soldiers  who  never 
calumniated  a  leader,  never  fled  before  a  foe  ;  their  women 
had  been  among  the  most  zealous  and  the  most  tender  nurses 
of  the  ambulances  they  had  founded  and  served  ;  their  houses 
had  been  freely  opened,  whether  to  the  families  exiled  from 
the  suburbs,  or  in  supplement  to  the  hospitals.  The  amount 
of  relief  they  afforded  unostentatiously,  out  of  means  that 
shared  the  general  failure  of  accustomed  resource  when  the 
famine  commenced,  would  be  scarcely  credible  if  stated. 
Admirable,  too,  were  the  fortitude  and  resignation  of  the  genu- 
ine Parisian  bourgeoisie — the  thrifty  tradesfolk  and  small 
rentiers — that  class  in  which,  to  judge  of  its  timidity  when 
opposed  to  a  mob,  courage  is  not  the  most  conspicuous  virtue. 
Courage  became  so  now — courage  to  bear  hourly  increasing 
privation,  and  to  suppress  every  murmur  of  suffering  that  would 
discredit  their  patriotism,  and  invoke  "  peace  at  any  price." 
It  was  on  this  class  that  the  calamities  of  the  siege  now  pressed 
the  most  heavily.  The  stagnation  of  trade,  and  the  stoppage 
of  the  rents,  in  which  they  had  invested  their  savings,  reduced 
many  of  them  to  actual  want.  Those  only  of  their  number 
who  obtained  the  pay  of  one  and  a  half  franc  a  day  as  National 
Guards  could  be  sure  to  escape  from  starvation.  But  this  pay 
had  already  begun  to  demoralize  the  receivers.  Scanty  for 
supply  of  food,  it  was  ample  for  supply  of  drink.  And  drunken- 
ness, hitherto  rare  in  that  rank  of  the  Parisians,  became  a 
prevalent  vice,  aggravated  in  the  case  of  a  National  Guard, 
when  it  wholly  unfitted  him  for  the  duties  he  undertook,  espe- 
cially such  National  Guards  as  were  raised  from  the  most  turbu- 
lent democracy  of  the  working  class.. 


THE    PARISIANS.  5^5 

But  of  alt  that  population,  there  were  t\Vo  sections  in  which 
the  most  beautiful  elements  of  our  human  nature  were  most 
touchingly  manifest — the  women  and  the  priesthood,  including 
in  the  latter  denomination  all  the  various  brotherhoods  and 
societies  which  religion  formed  and  inspired. 

It  was  on  the  27 th  of  December,  that  Frederic  Lemercier 
stood  gazing  wistfully  on  a  military  report  affixed  to  a  blank 
wall,  which  stated  that  "  the  enemy,  worn  out  by  a  resistance 
of  over  one  hundred  days,"  had  commenced  the  bombardment. 
Poor  Frederic  was  sadly  altered  ;  he  had  escaped  the  Prussians' 
guns,  but  not  the  Parisian  winter — the  severest  known  for 
twenty  years.  He  was  one  of  the  many  frozen  at  their  posts—- 
brought back  to  the  ambulance  with  Fox  in  his  bosom  trying 
to  keep  him  warm.  He  had  only  lately  been  sent  forth  as  con- 
valescent— ambulances  were  too  crowded  to  retain  a  patient 
longer  than  absolutely  needful — and  had  been  hunger-pinched 
and  frost-pinched  ever  since.  The  luxurious  Frederic  had 
still,  somewhere  or  other,  a  capital  yielding  above  three  thou- 
sand a  year,  and  of  which  he  could  not  now  realize  a  franc, 
the  title-deeds  to  various  investments  bein'g  in  the  hands  of 
Duplessis — the  most  trustworthy  of  friends,  the  most  upright 
of  men — but  who  was  in  Bretagne,  and  could  not  be  got  at. 
And  the  time  had  come  at  Paris  when  you  could  not  get  trust 
for  a  pound  of  horse-flesh,  or  a  daily  supply  of  fuel.  And 
Frederic  Lemercier,  who  had  long  since  spent  the  2000  francs 
borrowed  from  Alain  (not  ignobly,  but  somewhat  ostentatiously, 
in  feasting  any  acquaintance  who  wanted  a  feast),  and  who  had 
sold  to  any  one  who  could  afford  to  speculate  on  such  dainty 
luxuries,  clocks,  bronzes,  amber-mouthed  pipes — all  that  had 
made  the  envied  garniture  of  his  bachelor's  apartment — Fred- 
eric Lemercier  was,  so  far  as  the  task  of  keeping  body  and 
soul  together,  worse  off  than  any  English  pauper  who  can  apply 
to  the  Union.  Of  course  he  might  have  claimed  his  half-pay 
of  thirty  sous  as  a  National  Guard.  But  he  little  knows  the 
true  Parisian  who  imagines  a  Seigneur  of  the  Chausseed'Antin, 
the  oracle  of  those  with  whom  he  lived,  and  one  who  knew  life 
so  well  that  he  had  preached  prudence  to  a  seigneur  of  the 
Faubourg  like  Alain  de  Rochebriant,  stooping  to  apply  for  the 
wages  of  thirty  sous.  Rations  were  only  obtained  by  the  won- 
derful patience  of  women,  who  had  children  to  whom  they 
were  both  saints  and  martyrs.  The  hours,  the  weary  hours, 
one  had  to  wait  before  one  could  get  one's  place  on  the  line 
for  the  distribution  of  that  atrocious  black  bread  defeated 
men — defeated  most  wives  if  only  for  husbands — were  defied 


J26  TfiE   PARISIANS. 

only  by  mothers  and  daughters.  Literally  speaking,  Lemercier 
was  starving.  Alain  had  been  badly  wounded  in  the  sortie  of 
the  2ist,  and  was  laid  up  in  an  ambulance.  Even  if  he  could 
have  been  got  at,  he  had  probably  nothing  left  to  bestow  upon 
Lemercier. 

Lemercier  gazed  on  the  announcement  of  the  bombardment, 
and  the  Parisian  gayety,  which  some  French  historian  of  the 
siege  calls  douce  philosophic,  lingering  on  him  still,  he  said 
audibly,  turning  round  to  any  stranger  who  heard  :  "  Happiest 
of  mortals  that  we  are  !  Under  the  present  government  we 
are  never  warned  of  anything  disagreeable  that  can  happen  ; 
we  are  only  told  of  it  when  it  has  happened,  and  then  as  rather 
pleasant  than  otherwise.  I  get  up.  I  meet  a  c\v\\  gendarme. 
'  What  is  that  firing  ?  Which  of  our  provincial  armies  is  taking 
Prussia  in  the  rear  ? '  '  Monsieur,'  says  the  gendarme,  '  it  is 
the  Prussian  Krupp  guns.'  I  look  at  the  proclamation,  and  my 
fears  vanish,  my  heart  is  relieved.  I  read  that  the  bombard- 
ment is  a  sure  sign  that  the  enemy  is  worn  out." 

Some  of  the  men  grouped  round  Frederic  ducked  their  heads 
in  terror  ;  others,,  who  knew  that  the  thunderbolt  launched 
Irom  the  plateau  of  Avron  would  not  fall  on  the  pavements  of 
Paris,  laughed  and  joked.  But  in-  front,  with  no  sign  of  terror, 
no  sound  of  laughter,  stretched,  moving  inch  by  inch,  the 
female  procession  towards  the  bakery  in  which  the  morsel  of 
bread  for  their  infants  was  doled  out. 

"  Hist,  mon  ami"  said  a  deep  voice  beside  Lemercier. 
''  Look  at  those  women,  and  do  not  wound  their  ears  by  ajest." 

Lemercier,  offended  by  that  rebuke,  though  too  susceptible 
to  good  emotions  not  to  recognize  its  justice,  tried  with  feeble 
ringers  to  turn  up  his  moustache  and  to  turn  a  defiant  crest 
upon  the  rebuker.  He  was  rather  startled  to  see  the  tall 
martial  form  at  his  side,  and  to  recognize  Victor  de  Mauleon. 
"  Don't  you  think,  M.  Lemercier,"  resumed  the  Vicomte,  half 
sadly,  "that  these  women  are  worthy  of  better  husbands  and 
sons  than  are  commonly  found  among  the  soldiers  whose  uni- 
form we  wear  ?  " 

"The  National  Guard!  You  ought  not  to  sneer  at  them, 
Vicomte — you  whose  troop  covered  itself  with  glory  on  the 
great  days  of  Villiers  and  Champigny — you  in  whose  praise 
even  the  grumblers  of  Paris  became  eloquent,  and  in  whom  a 
future  Marshal  of  France  is  foretold." 

"  But,  alas  !  more  than  half  of  my  poor  troop  was  left  on  the 
battlefield,  or  is  now  wrestling  for  mangled  remains  of  life  in 
the  ambulances.  And  the  new  recruits  with  which  I  took  the 


THE   PARISIANS.  527 

field  on  the  2ist  are  not  likely  to  cover  themselves  with  glory, 
or  insure  to  their  commander  the  baton  of  a  marshal." 

"Ay,  I  heard  when  I  was  in  the  hospital  that  you  had  pub- 
licly shamed  some  of  these  recruits,  and  declared  that  you 
would  rather  resign  than  lead  them  again  to  battle." 

"  True  ;  and  at  this  moment,  for  so  doing,  I  am  the  man 
most  hated  by  the  rabble  who  supplied  those  recruits." 

The  men,  while  thus  conversing,  had  moved  slowly  on,  and 
were  now  in  front  of  a  large  cafe,  from  the  interior  of  which 
came  the  sound  of  loud  bravos  and  clappings  of  hands.  Le- 
mercier's  curiosity  was  excited.  "  For  what  can  be  that 
applause?"  he  said  ;  "Let  us  look  in  and  see." 

The  room  was  thronged.  In  the  distance,  on  a  small  raised 
platform,  stood  a  girl  dressed  in  faded  theatrical  finery,  making 
her  obeisance  to  the  crowd. 

"Heavens!"  exclaimed  Frederic,  "can  I  trust  my  eyes? 
Surely  that-is  the  once  superb  Julie  :  has  she  been  dancing 
here  ?  " 

One  of  the  loungers,  evidently  belonging  to  the  same  world 
as  Lemercier,  overheard  the  question,  and  answered  politely  : 
"  No,  Monsieur :  she  has  been  reciting  verses,  and  really 
declaims  very  well,  considering  it  is  not  her  vocation.  She  has 
given  us  extracts  from  Victor  Hugo  and  De  Musset  ;  and 
crowned  all  with  a  patriotic  hymn  by  Gustave  Rameau,  her  old 
lover,  if  gossip  be  true." 

Meanwhile  De  Mauleon,  who  at  first  had  glanced  over  the 
scene  with  his  usual  air  of  calm  and  cold  indifference,  became 
suddenly  struck  by  the  girl's  beautiful  face,  and  gazed  on  it 
with  a  look  of  startled  surprise. 

"  Who  and  what  did  you  say  that  poor,  fair  creature  is,  M. 
Lemercier?  " 

"  She  is  a  Mademoiselle  Julie  Caumartin,  and  was  a  very 
popular  coryphee.  She  has  hereditary  right  to  be  a  good 
dancer,  as  the  daughter  of  a  once  more  famous  ornament  of 
the  ballet,  la  belle  Leonie,  whom  you  must  have  seen  in  your 
young  days." 

"  Of  course.  Leonie — she  married  a  M.  Surville,  a  silly 
bourgeoise  gentilhomme,  who  earned  the  hatred  of  Paris  by 
taking  her  off  the  stage.  So  that  is  her  daughter !  I  see  no 
likeness  to  her  mother — much  handsomer.  Why  does  she  call 
herself  Caumartin  ?  " 

"Oh,"  said  Frederic,  "  a  melancholy  but  trite  story.  Leonie 
was  left  a  widow,  and  died  in  want.  What  could  the  poor  young 
daughter  do  ?  She  found  a  rich  protector,  who  had  influence 


528  THE 

to  get  her  an  appointment  in  the  ballet :  and  there  she  did  a§ 
most  girls  so  circumstanced  do — appeared  under  an  assumed 
name,  which  she  has  since  kept." 

"  I  understand,"  said  Victor  compassionately.  "  Poor 
thing !  she  has  quitted  the  platform,  and  is  coming  this  way, 
evidently  to  speak  to  you.  I  saw  her  eyes  brighten  as  she 
caught  sight  of  your  face." 

Lemercier  attempted  a  languid  air  of  modest  self-com- 
placency as  the  girl  now  approached  him.  ** JBonjou'f,  M. 
Frederic  !  A/i,  man  Dieu  !  how  thin  you  have  grown  !  You 
have  been  ill  ?" 

"  The  hardships  of  a  military  life,  Mademoiselle.  Ah,  for 
the  beaux  jours  and  the  peace  we  insisted  on  destroying  under 
the  Empire  which  we  destroyed  for  listening  to  us  !  But  you 
thrive  well,  I  trust.  I  have  seen  you  better  dressed,  but  never 
in  greater  beauty." 

The  girl  blushed  as  she  replied,  "  Do  you  really  think  as  you 
speak  ? " 

"  I  could  not  speak  more  sincerely  if  I  lived  in  the  legendary 
House  of  Glass." 

The  girl  clutched  his  arm,  and  said  in  suppressed  tones : 
"  Where  is  Gustave  ?" 

"  Gustave  Rameau  ?  I  have  no  idea.  Do  you  never  see  him 
now  ?" 

"  Never  ;  perhaps  I  shall  never  see  him  again  ;  but  when 
you  do  meet  him,  say  that  Julie  owes  to  him  her  livelihood.  An 
honest  livelihood,  Monsieur.  He  taught  her  to  love  verses  ; 
told  her  how  to  recite  them.  I  am  engaged  at  this  cafe  ;  you 
will  find  me  here  the  same  hour  every  day,  in  case — in  case. 
You  are  good  and  kind,  and  will  come  and  tell  me  that 
Gustave  is  well  and  happy  even  if  he  forgets  me.  An 
revoir !  Stop,  you  do  look,  my  poor  Frederic,  as  if — as 
if — pardon  me,  Monsieur  Lemercier,  is  there  anything  I 
.can  do  ?  Will  you  condescend  to  borrow  from  me  ?  I  am 
Lin  funds." 

*  Lemercier  at  that  offer  was  nearly  moved  to  tears.  Famished 
though  he  was,  he  could  not,  however,  have  touched  that  girl's 
earnings. 

"  You  are  an  angel  of  goodness,  Mademoiselle  !  Ah,  how  I 
envy  Gustave  Rameau  !  No,  I  don't  want  aid.  I  am  always 
a — rentier" 

" Bien!  and  if  you  see  Gustave,  you  will  not  forget." 

"  Rely  on  me.  Come  away,"  he  said  to  De  Mauleon  ;  "  I 
don't  want  to  hear  that  girl  repeat  the  sort  of  bombast  the 


THE  PARISIANS.  529 

indite  nowadays.  It  is  fustian  ;  and  that  girl  may  have 
a  brain  of  feather,  biit  she  has  a  heart  of  gold." 

"True,"  said  Victor,  as  they  regained  the  street.  "lover- 
heard  what  she  said  to  you.  What  an  incomprehensible  thing 
is  a  woman  J  How  more  incomprehensible  still  is  a  woman's 
love  !  Ah,  pardon  me  ;  I  must  leave  you.  I  see  in  the  pro- 
cession a  poor  woman  known  to  me  in  better  days." 

De  Mauleon  walked  towards  the  woman  he  spoke  of— one  of 
the  long  procession  to  the  bakery — a  child  clinging  to  her  robe. 
A  pale,  griefworn  woman,  still  young,  but  with  the  weariness 
of  age  on  her  face,  and  the  shadow  of  death  on  her  child's." 

"I  think  I  see  Madame  Monnier,"  said  De  Mauleon 
softly. 

She  turned  and  looked  at  him  drearily.  A  year  ago,  she 
would  have  blushed  if  addressed  by  a  stranger  in  a  name  not 
lawfully  hers. 

"  Well,"  she  said,  in  hollow  accents  broken  by  a  cough  ;  "I 
don't  know  you,  Monsieur." 

"  Poor  woman  !  "  he  resumed,  walking  beside  her  as  she 
moved  slowly  on,  while  the  eyes  of  other  women  in  the  proces- 
sion stared  at  him  hungrily.  "And  your  child  looks  ill  too. 
It  is  your  youngest?" 

"  My  only  one  !  The  others  are  in  Pere  la  Chaise.  There 
are  but-  few  children  alive  in  my  street  now.  God  has'been 
very  merciful,  and  taken  them  to  Himself." 

De  Mauleon  recalled  the  scene  of  a  neat,  comfortable  apart- 
ment, and  the  healthy,  happy  children  at  play  on  the  floor. 
The  mortality  among  the  little  ones,  especially  in  the  quaitier 
occupied  by  the  Working  classes,  had  of  late  been  terrible. 
The  want  of  food,  of  fuel,  the  intense  severity  of  the  weather, 
had  swept  them  off  as  by  a  pestilence. 

"And  Monnier — what  of  him  ?  No  doubt  he  is  a  National 
Guard,  and  has  his  pay  ?  " 

The  woman  made  no  answer,  but  hung  down  her  head.  She 
was  stifling  a  sob.  Till  then  her  eyes  seemed  to  have  exhaust- 
ed the  last  source  of  tears. 

"  He  lives  still  ?  "  continued  Victor  pityingly  :  "  He  is  not 
wounded  ? " 

"No:  he  is  well — in  health;  thank  you   kindly,  Monsieur." 

"But  his  pay  is  not  enough  to  help  you,  and  of  course  he 
can  get  no  work.  Excuse  me  if  I  stopped  you.  It  is  because  I 
owed  Armand  Monnier  a  little  debt  for  work,  and  I  am  ashamed 
to  say  that  it  quite  escaped  my  memory  in  these  terrible  events. 
Allow  me,  Madame,  to  pay  it  to  you,"  and  he  thrust  his  purse 


530  THE  PARISIANS. 

into  her  hand.  "I  think  this  contains  about  the  sum  I  owed ; 
if  more  or  less,  we  will  settle  the  difference  later.  Take  care 
of  yourself." 

He  was  turning  away,  when  the  woman  caught  hold  of  him. 

"Stay,  Monsieur.  May  Heaven  bless  you — but — but — tell 
me  what  name  I  am  to  give  to  Armand.  I  can't  think  of  any 
one  who  owed  him  money.  It  must  have  been  before  that 
dreadful  strike,  the  beginning  of  all  our  woes.  Ah,  if  it  were 
allowed  to  curse  any  one,  I  fear  my  last  breath  would  not  be 
a  prayer." 

"  You  would  curse  the  strike,  or  the  master  who  did  not  for- 
give Armand's  share  in  it  ?  " 

"  No,  no — the  cruel  man  who  talked  him  into  it — into  all 
that  has  changed  the  best  workman,  the  kindest  heart — the — • 
the — "  again  her  voice  died  in  sobs. 

"And  who  was  that  man  ? "  asked  De  Mauleon  falteringly. 

"  His  name  was  Lebeau.  If  you  were  a  poor  man,  I  should 
say  '  Shun  him.'  " 

"  I  have  heard  of  the  name  you  mention  ;  but  if  we  mean 
the  same  person,  Monnier  cannot  have  met  him  lately.  He 
has  not  been  in  Paris  since  the  siege." 

"  I  suppose  not,  the  coward  !  He  ruined  us — us  who  were 
so  happy  before  ;  and  then,  as  Armand  says,  cast  us  away  as 
instruments  he  had  done  with.  But — but  if  you  do  knmv  him, 
and  do  see  him  again,  tell  him — tell  him  not  to  complete  his 
wrong — not  to  bring  murder  on  Armand's  soul.  For  Armand 
isn't  what  he  was — and  has  become,  oh,  so  violent  !  I  dare 
not  take  this  money  without  saying  who  gave  it.  He  would 
not  take  money  as  alms  from  an  aristocrat.  Hush  !  he  beat 
me  for  taking  money  from  the  good  Monsieur  Raoul  de  Van- 
demar — my  poor  Armand  beat  me  !  " 

De  Mauleon  shuddered.  "  Say  that  it  is  from  a  customer 
whose  rooms  he  decorated  in  his  spare  hours  on  his  own  ac- 
count before  the  strike, — Monsieur ;"  here  he  uttered  indis- 
tinctly some  unpronounceable  name  and  hurried  off,  soon  lost 
as  the  streets  grew  darker.  Amid  groups  of  a  higher  order  of 
men — military  men,  nobles,  ci-d'.vant  deputies — among  such 
ones  his  name  stood  very  high.  Not  only  his  bravery  in  the, 
recent  sorties  had  been  signal,  but  a  strong  belief  in  his  mili- 
tary talents  had  become  prevalent  ;  and  conjoined  with  the 
name  he  had  before  established  as  a  political  writer,  and  the 
remembrance  of  the  vigor  and  sagacity  with  which  he  had 
opposed  the  war,  he  seemed  certain,  when  peace  and  order  be- 
came re-established,  of  a  brilliant  position  and  career  in  afuture 


tttE  PARISIANS.  531 

administration:  not  less  because  he  had  steadfastly  kept  aloof 
from  the  existing  government,  which  it  was  rumored,  rightly  or 
erroneously,  that  he  had  been  solicited  to  join  ;  and  from  every 
combination  of  the  various  democratic  or  discontented  factions. 

Quitting  these  more  distinguished  associates,  he  took  his 
way  alone  towards  the  ramparts.  The  day  was  closing  ;  the 
thunders  of  the  cannon  were  dying  down. 

He  passed  by  a  wine-shop  round  which  were  gathered  many 
of  the  worst  specimens  of  the  Moblots  and  National  Guards, 
mostly  drunk,  and  loudly  talking  in  vehement  abuse  of  gen- 
erals and  officers  and  commissariat.  By  one  of  the  men,  as  he 
came  under  the  glare  of  a  petroleum  lamp  (there  was  gas  no 
longer  in  the  dismal  city),  he  was  recognized  as  the  commander 
who  had  dared  to  insist  on  discipline,  and  disgrace  honest 
patriots  who  claimed  to  themselves  the  sole  option  between 
fight  and  flight.  The  man  was  one  of  those  patriots,  one  of 
the  new  recruits  whom  Victor  had  shamed  and  dismissed  for 
mutiny  and  cowardice.  Re  made  a  drunken  plunge  at  his  for- 
mer chief,  shouting,  "  A  bas  F arista  !  Comrades,  this  is  the 
coquin  De  Maxileon  who  is  paid  by  the  Prussians  for  getting  us 
killed."  "A  la  lanterne  !  A  la  lanternc!"  stammered  and 
hiccupped  others  of  the  group  ;  but  they  did  not  stir  to  execute 
their  threat.  Dimly  seen  as  the  stern  face  and  sinewy  form  of 
the  threatened  man  was  by  their  drowsied  eyes,  the  name  of 
De  Mauleon,  the  man  without  fear  of  a  foe,  and  without  ruth 
for  a  mutineer,  sufficed  to  protect  him  from  outrage  ;  and  with 
a  slight  movement  of  his  arm  that  sent  his  denouncer  reeling 
against  the  lamp-post,  De  Mauleon  passed  on — when  another 
man,  in  the  uniform  of  a  National  Guard,  bounded  from  the 
door  of  the  tavern,  crying  with  a  loud  voice,  "Who  said  De 
Mauleon  ? — let  me  look  on  him  ":  and  Victor,  who  had  strolled 
on  with  slow,  lion-like  steps,  cleaving  the  crowd,  turned,  and 
saw  before  him  in  the  gleaming  light  a  face,  in  which  the  bold, 
frank,  intelligent  aspect  of  former  days  was  lost  in  a  wild,  'eck- 
less,  savage  expression; — the  face  of  Armand  Monnier. 

"  Ha  !  are  you  really  Victor  de  Mauleon  ?"  asked  Monnier, 
not  fiercely,  but  under  his  breath — in  that  sort  of  stage  whis- 
per, which  is  the  natural  utterance  of  excited  men  under  the 
mingled  influence  of  potent  drink  and  hoarded  rage. 

"  Certainly  ;  I  am  Victor  de  Mauleon." 

"And  you  were  in  command  of  the company  of  the 

National  Guard  on  the  3oth  of  November  at  Champigny  and 
Villiers?" 

"I  was." 


532  THE   PARISIANS. 

"  And  yoti  shot  with  your  own  hand  an  officer  belonging  to 
another  company  who  refused  to  join  yours  ?" 

"  I  shot  a  cowardly  soldier  who  ran  away  from  the  enemy, 
and  seemed  a  ringleader  of  other  runaways  ;  and  in  so  doing, 
I  saved  from  dishonor  the  best  part  of  his  comrades." 

"  The  man  was  no  coward.  He  was  an  enlightened  French- 
man, and  worth  fifty  of  such  aristos  as  you  ;  and  he  knew  bet- 
ter than  his  officers  that  he  was  to  be  led  to  an  idle  slaughter. 
Idle — I  say  idle.  What  was  France  the  better,  how  was  Paris 
the  safer,  for  the  senseless  butchery  of  that  day  ?  You  muti- 
nied against  a  wiser  general  than. Saint  Trochu  when  you  mur- 
dered that  mutineer."  • 

"Armand  Monnier,  you  are  not  quite  sober  to-night,  or  I 
w^Diild  argue  with  you  that  question.  But  you  no  doubt  are 
brave  :  how  and  why  do  you  take  the  part  of  a  runaway  ?  " 

"  How  and  why  ?  He  was  my  brother  ;  and  you  own  yon 
murdered  him  :  my  brother — the  sagest  head  in  Paris.  ]f  I 
had  listened  to  him,  I  should  not  be — bah! — no  matter  now 
what  I  am." 

"  I  could  not  know  he  was  your  brother  ;  but  if  he  had  been 
mine  I  would  have  done  the  same." 

Here  Victor's  lip  quivered,  for  Monnier  griped  him  by  the 
arm,  and  looked  him  in  the  face  with  wild,  stony  eyes. 

"  I  recollect  that  voice  !  Yet — yet — you  say  you  are  a  noble, 
a  Vicomte — Victor  de  Maule"on  !  and  you  shot  my  brother!  " 

Here  he  passed  his  left  hand  rapidly  over  his  forehead.  The 
fumes  of  wine  still  clouded  his  mind,  but  rays  of  intelligence 
broke  through  the  cloud.  Suddenly  he  said  in  a  loud,  and 
calm,  and  natural  voice  : 

"  Mons.  le  Vicomte,  you  accost  me  as  Armand  Monnier — 
pray  how  do  you  know  my  name?" 

"  How  should  I  not  know  it  ?  I  have  looked  into  the  meet- 
ings of  the  'Clubs  rouges."  I  have  heard  you  speak,  and  nat- 
urally asked  your  name.  Bon  soir,  M.  Monnier  !  When  you 
reflect  in  cooler  moments,  you  will  see  that  if  patriots  excuse 
Brutus  for  first  dishonoring  and  then  executing  his  own  son, 
an  officer  charged  to  defend  his  country  may  be  surely  par- 
doned for  slaying  a  runaway  to  whom  he  was  no  relation,  when 
in  slaying  he  saved  the  man's  name  and  kindred  from  dishon- 
or— unless,  indeed,  you  insist  on  telling  the  world  why  he  was 
slain." 

"  I  know  your  voice — I  know  it.  Every  sound  becomes 
clearer  to  my  ear.  And  if — " 

But  while  Monnier  thus  spoke,  De  Maule'on   had  hastened 


THE    PARISIANS.  533 

on.  Monnier  looked  round,  saw  him  gone,  but  did  not  pursue. 
He  was  just  intoxicated  enough  to  know  that  his  footsteps 
were  not  steady,  and  he  turned  back  to  the  wine-shop  and  asked 
surlily  for  more  wine.  Could  you  have  seen  him  then  as  he 
leant  swinging  himself  to  and  fro  against  the  wall — had  you 
known  the  man  two  years  ago,  you  would  have  been  a 
brute  if  you  felt  disgust.  You  could  only  have  felt  that  pro- 
found compassion  with  which  we  gaze  on  a  great  royalty  fallen. 
For  the  grandest  of  all  royalties  is  that  which  takes  its  crown 
from  Nature,  needing  no  accident  of  birth.  And  Nature  made 
the  mind  of  Armand  Monnier  king-like  ;  endowed  it  with  lofty 
scorn  of  meanness  and  falsehood  and  dishonor,  with  warmth 
and  tenderness  of  heart  which  had  glow  enough  to  spare  from 
ties  of  kindred  and  hearth  and  home,  to  extend  to  those  distant 
circles  of  humanity  over  which  royal  natures  would  fain  extend 
the  shadow  of  their  sceptre. 

How  had  the  royalty  of  the  man's  nature  fallen  thus  ?  Roy- 
alty rarely  falls  from  its  own  constitutional  faults.  It  falls 
when,  ceasing  to  be  royal,  it  becomes  subservient  to  bad 
advisers.  And  what  bad  advisers,  always  appealing  to  his 
better  qualities  and  so  enlisting  his  worser,  had  discrowned 
this  mechanic  ? 

"  A  little  knowledge  is  a  dangerous  thing," 

says  the  old-fashioned  poet.  "  Not  so,"  says  the  modern 
philosopher  ;  "  a  little  knowledge  is  safer  than  no  knowledge." 
Possibly,  as  all  individuals  and  all  communities  must  go  through 
the  stage  of  a  little  knowledge  before  they  can  arrive  at  that 
of  much  knowledge,  the  philosopher's  assertion  may  be  right 
in  the  long  run,  and  applied  to  humankind  in  general.  But 
there  is  a  period,  as  there  is  a  class,  in  which  a  little  knowledge 
tends  to  terrible  demoralization.  And  Armand  Monnier  lived 
-in  that  period  and  was  one  of  that  class.  The  little  knowledge 
that  his  mind,  impulsive  and  ardent,  had  picked  up  out  of  books 
that  warred  with  the  great  foundations  of  existing  society,  had 
originated  in  ill  advices.  A  man  stored  with  much  knowledge 
would  never  have  let  Madame  de  Grantmesnil's  denunciations 
of  marriage  rites,  or  Louis  Blanc's  vindication  of  Robespierre 
as  the  representative  of  the  working  against  the  middle  class, 
influence  his  practical  life.  He  would  have  assessed  such 
opinions  at  their  real  worth  ;  and  whatever  that  worth  might 
seem  to  him,  would  not  to  such  opinions  have  committed  the 
conduct  of  his  life.  Opinion  is  not  fateful  :  conduct  is.  A 
little  knowledge  crazes  an  earnest,  warm-blooded,  powerful 


534  THE    PARISIANS. 

creature  like  Armand  Monnier  into  a  fanatic.  He  takes  an 
opinion  which  pleases  him  as  a  revelation  from  the  gods  ;  that 
opinion  shapes  his  conduct  ;  that  conduct  is  his  fate.  Woe  to 
the  philosopher  who  serenely  flings  before  the  little  knowledge 
of  the  artisan,  dogmas  as  harmless  as  the  Atlantis  of  Plato  if 
only  to  be  discussed  by  philosophers,  and  deadly  as  the  torches 
of  Ate  if  seized  as  articles  of  a  creed  by  fanatics  !  But  thrice 
woe  to  the  artisan  who  makes  himself  the  zealot  of  the  dogma  ! 
Poor  Armand  acts  on  the  opinions  he  adopts  ;  proves  his 
contempt  for  the  marriage  state  by  living  with  the  wife  of 
another  ;  resents,  as  natures  so  inherently  manly  must  do,  the 
Society  that  visits  on  her  his  defiance  of  its  laws  ;  throws  him- 
self, head  foremost,  against  that  Society  altogether  ;  necessarily 
joins  all  who  have  other  reasons  for  hostility  to  Society ;  he 
himself  having  every  inducement  not  to  join  indiscriminate 
strikes — high  wages,  a  liberal  employer,  ample  savings,  the  cer- 
tainty of  soon  becoming  employer  himself.  No  ;  that  is  not 
enough  to  the  fanatic  ;  he  persists  on  being  dupe  and  victim. 
He,  this  great  king  of  labor,  crowned  by  Nature,  and  cursed 
with  that  degree  of  little  knowledge  which  does  not  compre- 
hend how  much  more  is  required  before  a  schoolboy  would 
admit  it  to  be  knowledge  at  all — he  rushes  into  the  maddest  of 
all  speculations — that  of  the  artisan  with  little  knowledge  and 
enormous  faith  ;  that  which  intrusts  the  safety  and  repose  and 
dignity  of  life  to  some  ambitious  adventurer,  who  uses  his 
warm  heart  for  the  adventurer's  frigid  purpose,  much  as  the 
lawyer-government  of  September  used  the  Communists  ;  much 
as,  in  every  revolution  of  France,  a  Bertrand  has  used  a  Raton  ; 
much  as,  till  the  sound  of  the  last  trumpet,  men  very  much 
worse  than  Victor  de  Mauleon  will  use  men  very  much  better 
than  Armand  Monnier,  if  the  Armand  Monniers  disdain  the 
modesty  of  an  Isaac  Newton  on  hearing  that  a  theorem  to 
which  he  had  given  all  the  strength  of  his  patient  intellect  was 
disputed:  "It  may  be  so";  meaning,  I  suppose,  that  it  re- 
quires a  large  amount  of  experience  ascertained  before  a  man 
of  much  knowledge  becomes  that  which  a  man  of  little  knowl- 
edge is  at  a  jump — the  fanatic  of  an  experiment  untried. 


CHAPTER  II. 

SCARCELY  had  De  Mauleon  quitted  Lemercier  before  the 
latter  was  joined  by  two  loungers  scarcely  less  famished  than 
himself,  Savarin  and  De  Bre?e?  Like  himself,  too,  both  had 


THE    PARISIANS.  535 

been  sufferers  from  illness,  though  not  of  a  nature  to  be  con- 
signed to  an  hospital.  All  manner  of  diseases  then  had  com- 
bined to  form  the  pestilence  which  filled  the  streets  with  unre- 
garded hearses, — bronchitis,  pneumonia,  smallpox,  a  strange 
sort  of  spurious  dysentery  much  more  speedily  fatal  than  the 
genuine.  The  three  men,  a  year  before  so  sleek,  looked  like 
ghosts  under  the  withering  sky  ;  yet  all  three  retained  embers 
of  the  native  Parisian  humor,  which  their  very  breath  on 
meeting  sufficed  to  kindle  up  into  jubliant  sparks  or  rapid 
flashes. 

"  There  are  two  consolations,"  said  Savarin,  as  the  friends 
strolled  or  rather  crawled  towards  the  Boulevards — "  two  con- 
solations for  the  gourmet  and  for  the  proprietor  in  these  days 
of  trial  for  the  gourmand,  becarse  the  price  of  truffles  is  come 
down." 

"  Truffles  !  "  gasped  De  Breze,  with  watering  mouth  ;  "im- 
possible !  They  are  gone  with  the  age  of  gold." 

"  Not  so.  I  speak  on  the  best  authority — my  laundress  ;  for 
she  attends  the  succursale  in  the  Rue  de  Chateaudun  ;  and  if 
the  poor  woman,  being,  luckily  for  me,  a  childless  widow,  gets 
a  morsel  she  can  spare,  she  sells  it  to  me." 

"Sells  it!"  feebly  exclaimed  Lemercier.  "  Croesus !  you 
have  money,  then,  and  can  buy  ?  " 

"  Sells  it — on  credit  !  I  am  to  pension  her  for  life  if  I  live 
to  have  money  again.  Don't  interrupt  me.  This  honest 
woman  goes  this  morning  to  the  succursale.  I  promise  myself 
a  delicious  biftcck  of  horse.  She  gains  the  suaursale,  and  the 
employe  informs  her  that  there  is  nothing  left  in  his  store 
except — truffles.  A  glut  of  those  in  the  market  allows  him  to 
offer  her  a  bargain — seven  francs  la  boite.  Send  me  seven 
francs,  De  Breze,  and  you  shall  share  the  banquet." 

De  Breze"  shook  his  head  expressively. 

"  But,"  resumed  Savarin,  "  though  credit  exists  no  more 
except  with  my  laundress,  upon  terms  of  which  the  usury  is 
necessarily  proportioned  to  the  risk,  yet,  as  I  had  the  honor  before 
to  observe,  there  is  comfort  for  the  proprietor.  The  instinct 
of  property  is  imperishable." 

"  NG;  in  the  house  where  I  lodge,"  said  Lemercier.  "  Two 
soldiers  were  billeted  there  ;  and  during  my  stay  in  the  ambu- 
lance, they  enter  my  rooms  and  cart  away  all  of  the  little 
furniture  left  there,  except  a  bed  and  a  table.  Brought 
before  a  court-martial,  they  defend  themselves  by  saying  : 
1  The  rooms  were  abandoned.'  The  excuse  was  held  valid. 
They  were  let  off  with  a  reprimand  and  a  promise  to  restore 


536  THE    PARISIANS. 

what  was  not  already  disposed  of.  They  have  restored  me 
another  table  and  four  chairs." 

"  Nevertheless,  they  had  the  instinct  of  property,  though 
erroneously  developed,  otherwise  they  would  not  have  deemed 
any  excuse  for  their  act  necessary.  Now  for  my  instance  of 
the  inherent  tenacity  of  that  instinct.  A  worthy  citizen  in 
want  of  fuel  sees  a  door  in  a  garden  wall,  and  naturally  carries 
off  the  door.  He  is  apprehended  by  a  gendarme  who  sees  the 
act.  '  Voleur?  he  cries  to  the  gendarme,  '  do  you  want  to  rob 
me  of  my  property?'  'That  door  your  property  ?  I  saw  you 
take  it  away.'  '  You  confess,'  cried  the  citizen  triumphantly— 
'you  confess  that  it  is  my  property  ;  foryou  saw  me  appropriate 
it.'  Thus  you  see  how  imperishable  is  the  instinct  of  prop- 
erty. No  sooner  does  it  disappear  as  yours  than  it  reappears 
as  mine." 

"  I  would  laugh  if  I  could,"  said  Lemercier,  "  but  such  a  con- 
vulsion would  be  fatal.  Dieu  de  dieu,  how  empty  I  am  ! "  He 
reeled  as  he  spoke,  and  clung  to  De  Bre"ze  for  support.  De 
Brez£  had  the  reputation  of  being  the  most  selfish  of  men. 
But  at  that  moment,  when  a  generous  man  might  be  excused 
for  being  selfish  enough  to  desire  to  keep  the  little  that  he  had 
for  his  own  reprieve  from  starvation,  this  egotist  became  superb. 
"  Friends,"  he  cried,  with  enthusiasm,  "  I  have  something  yet 
in  my  pocket ;  we  will  dine,  all  three  of  us." 

"  Dine  !  "  faltered  Lemercier.  "  Dine  !  I  have  not  dined 
since  I  left  the  hospital.  I  breakfasted  yesterday — on  two  mice 
upon  toast.  Dainty,  but  not  nutritious.  And  I  shared  them 
with  Fox." 

"Fox !     Fox  lives  still,  then ? "  cried  De  Bre"ze,  startled. 

"  In  a  sort  of  way  he  does.  But  one  mouse  since  yesterday 
morning  is  not  much  ;  and  he  can't  expect  that  every  day." 

"Why  don't  you  take  him  out?"  asked  Savarin.  "  Give  him 
a  chance  of  picking  up  a  bone  somewhere." 

"  I  dire  not ;  he  would  be  picked  up  himself.  Dogs  are 
getting  very  valuable  ;  they  sell  for  50  francs  apiece.  Come, 
De  Breze,  where  are  we  to  dine?" 

"I  and  Savarin  can  dine  at  the  London  Tavern  upon  rat 
pdt^ or  jugged  cat.  But  it  would  be  impertinence  to  invite  a 
satrap  like  yourself,  who  has  a  whole  dog  in  his  larder — a  dish 
of  50  francs — a  dish  for  a  king.  Adieu,  my  dear  Frederic. 
Allans,  Savarin." 

"  I  feasted  you  on  better  meats  than  dog  when  I  could  afford 
it,"  said  Frederic  plaintively;  "and  the  first  time  you  invite 
me  you  retract  the  invitation.  Be  it  so-  Bon  appttit." 


THE    PARISIANS.  537 

' 

"  JBah  /  "  said  De  Breze,  catcliing  Frederic's  arm  as  he  turned 
to  depart.  "Of  course  I  was  but  jesting.  Only  another  day, 
when  my  pockets  will  be  empty,  do  think  what  an  excellent 
thing  a  roasted  dog  is,  and  make  up  your  mind  while  Fox  has 
still  some  little  flesh  on  his  bones." 

"  Flesh  !  "  said  Savarin,  detaining  them.  "Look  !  See  how 
right  Voltaire  was  in  saying,  'Amusement  is  the  first  necessity 
of  civilized  man.'  Paris  can  do  without  bread ;  Paris  still 
retains  Polichinello." 

He  pointed  to  the  puppet-show,  round  which  a  crowd,  not  of 
children  alone,  but  of  men — middle-aged  and  old — were  col- 
lected ;  while  sous  were  dropped  into  the  tin  handed  round  by 
a  squalid  boy. 

"And,  monami}  whispered  De  Breze  to  Lemercier,  with  the 
voice  of  a  tempting  fiend,  "  observe  how  Punch  is  without  his 
dog." 

It  was  true.  The  dog  was  gone — its  place  supplied  by  a 
melancholy,  emaciated  cat. 

Frederic  crawled  towards  the  squalid-boy.  "What  has 
become  of  Punch's  dog  ?  " 

"  We  ate  him  last  Sunday.  Next  Sunday  we  shall  have  the 
cat  in  a  pie,"  said  the  urchin,  with  a  sensual  smack  of  the  lips. 

"O  Fox  !  Fox  ! "  murmured  Frederic,  as  the  three  men  went 
slowly  down  through  the  darkening  streets,  the  roar  of  the 
Prussian  guns  heard  afar,  while  distinct  and  near  rang  the 
laugh  of  the  idlers  round  the  Punch  without  a  dog. 


CHAPTER  III. 

WHILE  De  Breze"  and  his  friends  were  feasting  at  the  Cafe" 
Anglais,  and  faring  better-  than  the  host  had  promised — for 
the  bill  of  fare  comprised  such  luxuries  as  ass,  mule,  peas, 
fried  potatoes,  and  champagne  (champagne  in  some  myste- 
rious way  was  inexhaustible  during  the  time  of  famine) — 
a  very  different  group  had  assembled  in  the  rooms  of  Isaura 
Cicogna.  She  and  the  Venosta  had  hitherto  escaped  the 
extreme  destitution  to  which  many  richer  persons  had  been 
reduced.  It  is  true  that  Isaura's  fortune,  placed  in  the  hands 
of  the  absent  Louvier,  and  invested  in  the  new  street  that  was 
to  have  been,  brought  no  return.  It  was  true  that  in  that 
street  the  Venosta,  dreaming  of  cent,  per  cent.,  had  invested 
all  her  savings.  But  the  Venosta,  at  the  first  announcement 
of  war,  had  insisted  on  retaining  in  hand  a  small  sum  from  the 


538  THE  PARISIANS. 

amount  Isatira  had  received  from  her  roman,  that  might  suffice 
for  current  expenses,  and  with  yet  more  acute  foresight  had 
laid  in  stores  of  provisions  and  fuel  immediately  after  the 
probability  of  a  siege  became  apparent.  But  even  the  provi- 
dent mind  of  the  Venosta  had  never  foreseen  that  the  siege 
would  endure  so  long,  or  that  the  prices  of  all  articles  of  neces- 
sity would  rise  so  high.  And  meanwhile  all  resources — money, 
fuel,  provisions — had  been  largely  drawn  upon  by  the  charity 
and  benevolence  of  Isaura,  without  much  remonstrance  on  the 
part  of  the  Venosta,  whose  nature  was  very  accessible  to  pity. 
Unfortunately,  too,  of  late  money  and  provisions  had  failed  to 
Monsieur  and  Madame  Rameau,  their  income  consisting  partly 
of  rents,  no  longer  paid,  and  the  profits  of  a  sleeping  partner- 
ship in  the  old  shop,  from  which  custom  had  departed  ;  so 
that  they  came  to  share  the  fireside  and  meals  at  the  rooms  of 
their  son's  fiancee  with  little  scruple,  because  utterly  unaware 
that  the  money  retained  and"  the  provisions  stored  by  the 
Venosta  were  now  nearly  exhausted. 

The  patriotic  ardor  which  had  first  induced  the  elder  Rameau 
to  volunteer  his  services  as  a  National  Guard,  had  been  ere 
this  cooled,  if  not  suppressed,  first  by  the  hardships  of  the  duty, 
and  then  by  the  disorderly  conduct  of  his  associates,  and  their 
ribald  talk  and  obscene  songs.  He  was  much  beyond  the  age 
at  which  he  could  be  registered.  His  son  was,  however,  com- 
pelled to  become  his  substitute,  though  from  his  sickly  health 
and  delicate  frame  attached  to  that  portion  of  the  National 
Guard  which  took  no  part  in  actual  engagements,  and  was  sup- 
posed to  do  work  on  the  ramparts  and  maintain  order  in  the 
city. 

In  that  duty,  so  opposed  to  his  tastes  and  habits,  Gustave 
signalized  himself  as  one  of  the  loudest  declaimers  against  the 
imbecility  of  the  government,  and  in  the  demand  for  immedi- 
ate and  energetic  action,  no  matter  at  what  loss  of  life,  on  the 
part  of  all — except  the  heroic  force  to  which  he  himself  was 
attached.  Still,  despite  his  military  labors,  Gustave  found 
time  to  contribute  to  Red  journals,  and  his  contributions  paid 
him  tolerably  well.  To  do  him  justice,  his  parents  concealed 
from  him  the  extent  of  their  destitution  ;  they,  on  their  part, 
not  aware  that  he  was  so  able  to  assist  them,  rather  fearing  that 
he  himself  had  nothing  else  for  support  but  his  scanty  pay  as  a 
National  Guard.  In  fact,  of  late  the  parents  and  son  had  seen 
little  of  each  other.  M.  Rameau,  though  a  Liberal  politician, 
was  Liberal  as  a  tradesman,  not  as  a  Red  Republican  or  a 
Socialist.  And,  though  little  heeding  his  son's  theories  while 


THE   PARISIANS.  539 

the -Empire  secured  him  from  the  practical  effect  of  them,  he 
was  now  as  sincerely  frightened  at  the  chance  of  the  Commun- 
ists becoming  rampant  as  most  of  the  Parisian  tradesmen  were. 
Madame  Rameau,  on  her  side,  though  she  had  the  dislike  to 
aristocrats  which  was  prevalent  with  her  class,  was  a  staunch 
Roman  Catholic ;  and  seeing  in  the  disasters  that  had  befallen 
her  country  the  punishment  justly  incurred  by  its  sins,  could 
not  but  be  shocked  by  the  opinions  of  Gustave,  though  she 
little  knew  that  he  was  the  author  of  certain  articles  in  certain 
journals,  in  which  these  opinions  were  proclaimed  with  a  vehe- 
mence far  exceeding  that  which  they  assumed  in  his  conversa- 
tion. She  had  spoken  to  him  with  warm  anger,  mixed  with 
passionate  tears,  on  his  irreligious  principles ;  and  from  that 
moment  Gustave  shunned  to  give  her  another  opportunity  of 
insulting  his  pride  and  depreciating  his  wisdom. 

Partly  to  avoid  meeting  his  parents,  partly  because  he 
recoiled  almost  as  much  from  the  ennui  of  meeting  the  other 
visitors  at  her  apartments — the  Paris  ladies  associated  with 
her  in  the  ambulance,  Raoul  de  Vandemar,  whom  he  especially 
hated,  and  the  Abbe  Vertpre,  who  had  recently  come  into 
intimate  friendship  with  both  the  Italian  ladies — his  visits  to 
Isaura  had  become  exceedingly  rare.  He  made  his  incessant 
military  duties  the  pretext  for  absenting  himself;  and  now,  on 
this  evening,  there  were  gathered  round  Isaura's  hearth,  on 
which  burned  almost  the  last  of  the  hoarded  fuel,  the  Venosta, 
the  two  Rameaus,  the  Abbe  Vertpre,  who  was  attached  as  con- 
fessor to  the  society  of  which  Isaura  was  so  zealous  a  member. 
The  old  priest  and  the  young  poetess  had  become  dear  friends. 
There  is  in  the  nature  of  a  woman  (and  especially  of  a  woman 
at  once  so  gifted  and  so  childlike  as  Isaura,  combining  an 
innate  tendency  towards  faith  with  a  restless  inquisitiveness 
of  intellect,  which  is  always  suggesting  query  or  doubt)  a  crav- 
ing for  something  afar  from  the  sphere  of  her  sorrow,  which 
can  only  be  obtained  through  that "  bridal  of  the  earth  and  sky," 
which  we  call  religion.  And  hence  to  natures  like  Isaura's, 
that  link  between  the  woman  and  the  priest,  which  the  phi- 
losophy of  France  has  never  been  able  to  dissever. 

"  It  is  growing  late,"  said  Madame  Rameau  ;  "I  am  begin- 
ning to  feel  uneasy.  Our  dear  Isaura  is  not  yet  returned." 

"You  need  be  under  no  apprehension,"  said  the  Abbe". 
"  The  ladies  attached  to  the  ambulance  of  which  she  is  so 
tender  and  zealous  a  sister  incur  no  risk.  There  are  al-.vays 
brave  men  related  to  the  sick  and  wounded  who  see  to  the  safe 
return  of  the  women.  My  poor  Raoul  visits  that  ambulance 


540  THE    PARISIANS. 

daily.  His  kinsman,  M.  Rochebriant,  is  there  among  the 
wounded." 

"  Not  seriously  hurt,  I  hope,"  said  the  Venosta  ;  "not  dis-. 
figured  ?  He  was  so  handsome  ;  it  is  only  the  ugly  warrior 
whom  a  scar  on  the  face  improves." 

"  Don't  be  alarmed,  Signora ;  the  Prussian  guns  spared  his 
face.  His  wounds  in  themselves  were  not  dangerous,  but  he 
lost  a  good  deal  of  blood.  Raoul  and  the  Christian  brothers 
found  him  insensible  among  a  heap  of  the  slain." 

"  M.  de  Vandemar  seems  to  have  very  soon  recovered  the 
shock  of  his  poor  brother's  death,"  said  Madame  Rameau. 
"  There  is  very  little  heart  in  an  aristocrat." 

The  Abbe's  mild  brow  contracted.  "  Have  more  charity, 
my  daughter.  It  is  because  Raoul's  sorrow  for  his  lost  brother 
is  so  deep  and  so  holy  that  he  devotes  himself  more  than  ever 
to  the  service  of  the  Father  which  is  in  'Heaven.  He  said,  a 
day  or  two  after  the  burial,  when  plans  for  a  monument  to 
Enguerrand  were  submitted  to  him  :  '  May  my  prayer  be 
vouchsafed,  and  my  life  be  a  memorial  of  him  more  acceptable 
to  his  gentle  spirit  tham  monuments  of  bronze  or  marble. 
May  I  be  divinely  guided  and  sustained  in  my  desire  to  do 
such  good  acts  as  he  would  have  done  had  he  been  spared 
longer  to  earth.  And  whenever  tempted  to  weary,  may  my 
conscience  whisper,  Betray^iot  the  trust  left  to  thee  by  thy 
brother,  lest  thou  be  not  reunited  to  him  at  last.'  " 

"Pardon  me,  pardon!"  murmured  Madame  Rameau 
humbly,  while  the  Venosta  burst  into  tears. 

The  Abbe,  though  a  most  sincere  and  earnest  ecclesiastic, 
was  a  cheery  and  genial  man  of  the  world  ;  and,  in  order  to 
relieve  Madame  Rameau  from  the  painful  relf-reproach  he  had 
before  excited,  he  turned  the  conversation.  "  I  must  beware, 
however,"  he  said,  with  his  pleasant  laugh,  "  as  to  the  com- 
pany in  which  I  interfere  in.  family  questions  ;  and  especially 
in  which  I  defend  my  poor  Raoul  from  any  charge  brought 
against  him.  For  some  good  friend  this  day  sent  me  a  terrible 
organ  of  communistic  philosophy,  in  which  we  humble  priests 
are  very  roughly  handled,  and  I  myself  am  specially  singled 
out  by  name  as  a  pestilent  intermeddler  in  the  affairs  of  private 
households.  I  am  said  to  set  the  women  against  the  brave 
men  who  are  friends  of  the  people,  and  am  cautioned  by  very 
truculent  threats  to  cease  from  such  villanous  practices." 
And  here  with  a  dry  humor  that  turned  into  ridicule  what 
would  otherwise  have  excited  disgust  and  indignation  among 
his  listeners,  he  read  aloud  passages  replete  with  the  sort  of 


THE    PARISIANS.  541 

false  eloquence  which  was  then  the  vogue  among  the  Red 
journals.  In  these  passages,  not  only  the  Abbe  was  pointed 
out  for  popular  execration,  but  Raoul  de  Vandemar,  though 
not  expressly  named,  was  clearly  indicated  as  a  pupil  of  the 
Abbe's,  the  type  of  a  lay  Jesuit. 

The  Venosta  alone  did  not  share  in  the  contemptuous 
laughter  with  which  the  inflated  style  of  these  diatribes  inspired 
the  Rameaus.  Her  simple  Italian  mind  was  horror  stricken 
by  language  which  the  Abbe  treated  with  ridicule. 

"  Ah  !  "  said  M.  Rameau,  "  I  guess  the  author — that  fire- 
brand Felix  Pyat." 

"  No,"  answered  the  Abbe  ;  "the  writer  signs  himself  by  the 
name  of  a  more  learned  atheist — Diderot  lejeune." 

Here  the  door  opened,  and  Raoul  entered,  accompanying 
Isaura.  A  change  had  come  over  the  face  of  the  young  Van- 
demar since  his  brother's  death.  The  lines  about  the  mouth 
had  deepened,  the  cheeks  had  lost  their  rounded  contour  and 
grown  somewhat  hollow.  But  the  expression  was  as  serene  as 
ever,  perhaps  even  less  pensively  melancholy.  His  whole 
aspect  was  that  of  a  man  who  has  sorrowed,  but  been  sup- 
ported in  sorrow  ;  perhaps  it  was  more  sweet,  certainly  it  was 
more  lofty. 

And  as  if  there  were  in  the  atmosphere  of  his  presence 
something  that  communicated  the  likeness  of  his  own  soul  to 
others,  since  Isaura  had  been  brought  into  his  companionship, 
her  own  lovely  face  had  caught  the  expression  that  prevailed  in 
his  ;  that,  too,  had  become  more  sweet  ;  that,  too,  had  become 
more  lofty. 

The  friendship  that  had  grown  up  between  these  two  young 
mourners  was  of  a  very  rare  nature.  It  had  in  it  no  sentiment 
that  could  ever  warm  into  the  passion  of  human  love.  Indeed, 
had  Isaura's  heart  been  free  to  give  away,  love  for  Raoul  de 
Vandemar  would  have  seemed  to  her  a  profanation.  He  was 
never  more  priestly  than  when  he  was  most  tender.  And  the 
tenderness  of  Raoul  towards  her  was  that  of  some  saint-like 
nature  towards  the  acolyte  whom  it  attracted  upwards.  He 
had  once,  just  before  Enguerrand's  death,  spoken  to  Isaura  with 
a  touching  candor  as  to  his  own  predilection  for  a  monastic 
life.  "  The  worldly  avocations  that  open  useful  and  honorable 
careers  for  others  have  no  charm  for  me.  I  care  not  for  riches 
nor  power,  nor  honors  nor  fame.  The  austerities  of  the  con- 
ventual life  have  no  terror  for  me  ;  on  the  contrary,  they  have  a 
charm,  for  with  them  are  abstraction  from  earth  and  meditation 
on  Heaven.  In  earlier  years  I  might,  like  other  men,  have 


54-  THE    PARISIANS. 

cheiished  dreams  of  human  love,  and  felicity  in  married  life, 
but  /or  the  sort  of  veneration  with  which  I  regarded  one  to 
whom  I  owe,  humanly  speaking,  whatever  of  good  there  may 
be  in  me.  Just  when  first  taking  my  place  among  the  society 
of  young  men  who  banish  from  their  life  all  thought  of  another, 
I  came  under  the  influence  of  a  woman  who  taught  me  to  see 
that  holiness  was  beauty.  She  gradually  associated  me  with 
her  acts  of  benevolence,  and  from  her  I  learned  to  love  God  too 
well  not  to  be  indulgent  to  his  creatures.  I  know  not  whether 
the  attachment  I  felt  to  her  could  have  been  inspired  in  one 
who  had  not  from  childhood  conceived  a  romance,  not  perhaps 
justified  by  history,  for  the  ideal  images  of  chivalry.  My  feel- 
ing for  her  at  first  was  that  of  the  pure  and  poetic  homage 
which  a  young  knight  was  permitted,  sans  reproche^o  render  to 
some  fair  queen  or  chatelaine,  whose  colors  he  wore  in  the  lists, 
whose  spotless  repute  he  would  have  perilled  his  life  to  defend. 
But  soon  even  that  sentiment,  pure  as  it  was,  became  chastened 
from  all  breath  of  earthly  love,  in  proportion  as  the  admiration 
refined  itself  into  reverence.  She  has  often  urged  me  to  marry, 
but  I  have  no  bride  on  this  earth.  I  do  but  want  to  see 
Enguerrand  happily  married,  and  then  I  quit  the  world  for  the 
cloister." 

But  after  Enguerrand's  death,  Raoul  resigned  all  idea  of  the 
convent.  That  evening,  as  he  attended  to  their  homes  Isaura 
and  the  other  ladies  attached  to  the  ambulance,  he  said  in  answer 
to  inquiries  about  his  mother  :  "  She  is  resigned  and  calm.  I 
have  promised  her  I  will  not,  while  she  lives,  bury  her  other 
son  :  I  renounce  my  dreams  of  the  monastery." 

Raoul  did  not  remain  many  minutes  at  Isaura's.  The  Abbe 
accompanied  him  on  his  way  home.  "  I  have  a  request  to 
make  to  you,"  said  the  former  ;  "  you  know,  of  course,  your 
distant  cousin  the  Vicomte  de  Mauleon  ?  " 

"  Yes.     Not  so  well  as  I  ought,  for   Enguerrand  liked  him." 

"  Well  enough  at  all  events  to  call  on  him  with  a  request 
which  I  am  commissioned  to  make,  but  it  might  come  better 
from  you  as  a  kinsman.  I  am  a  stranger  to  him,  and  I  know 
not  whether  a  man  of  that  sort  would  not  regard  as  an  officious 
intermeddling  any  communication  made  to  him  by  a  priest. 
The  matter,  however,  is  a  very  simple  one.  At  the  convent  of 
— • —  there  is  a  poor  nun  who  is,  I  fear,  dying.  She  has  an 
intense  desire  to  see  M  de  Mauleon,  whom  she  declares  to  be 
her  uncle,  and  her  only  surviving  relative.  The  laws  of  the 
convent  are  not  too  austere  to  prevent  the  interview  she  seeks 
in  such  a  case.  I  should  add  that  I  am  not  acquainted  with 


THE    PARISIANS.  543 

her  previous  history.  I  am  not  the  confessor  of  the  sisterhood  ; 
he,  poor  man,  was  badly  wounded  by  a  chance  ball  a  few  days 
ago  when  attached  to  an  ambulance  on  the  ramparts.  As  soon 
as  the  surgeon  would  allow  him  to  see  anyone,  he  sent  for  me, 
and  bade  me  go  to  the  nun  I  speak  of — Sister  Ursula.  It  seems 
that  he  had  informed  her  that  M.  de  Mauleon  was  at  Paris,  and 
had  promised  to  ascertain  his  address.  His  wound  had  pre- 
vented his  doing  so,  but  he  trusted  to  me  to  procure  the  infor- 
mation. I  am  well  acquainted  with  the  Superieure  of  the  con- 
vent, and  I  flatter  myself  that  she  holds  me  in  esteem.  I  had 
therefore  no  difficulty  to  obtain  her  permission  to  see  this  poor 
nun,  which  I  did  this  evening.  She  implored  me  for  the  peace 
of  her  soul  to  lose  no  time  in  finding  out  M.  de  Mauleon's 
address,  and  entreating  him  to  visit  her.  Lest  he  should  demur, 
I  was  to  give  him  the  name  by  which  he  had  known  her  in  the 
world — Louise  Duval.  Of  course  I  obeyed.  The  address  of 
a  man  who  has  so  distinguished  himself  in  this  unhappy  seige 
I  very  easily  obtained,  and  repaired  at  once  to  M.  de  Mauleon's 
apartment.  I  there  learned  that  he  was  from  home,  and  it  was 
uncertain  whether  he  would  not  spend  the  night  on  the  ram- 
parts." 

"I  will  not  fail  to  see  him  early  in  the  morning,"  said  Raoul, 
"  and  execute  your  commission." 


CHAPTER  IV. 

DE  MAULEON  was  somewhat  surprised  by  Raoul's  visit  the 
next  morning.  He  had  no  great  liking  for  a  kinsman  whose 
politely  distant  reserve  towards  him,  in  contrast  to  poor 
Enguerrand's  genial  heartiness,  had  much  wounded  his  sensi- 
tive self-respect  ;  nor  could  he  comprehend  the  religious 
scruples  which  forbade  Raoul  to  take  a  soldier's  share  in  the 
battlefield,  though  in  seeking  there  to  save  the  lives  of  others 
so  fearlessly  hazarding  his  own  life. 

"  Pardon,"  said  Raoul,  with  his  sweet,  mournful  smile,  "  the 
unseasonable  hour  at  which  I  disturb  you.  But  your  duties  on 
the  ramparts  and  mine  in  the  hospital  begin  early,  and  I  have 
promised  the  Abbe  Vertpre  to  communicate  a  message  of  a 
nature  which  perhaps  you  may  deem  pressing."  He  proceeded 
at  once  to  repeat  what  the  Abbe"  had  communicated  to  him  the 
night  before  relative  to  the  illness  and  the  request  of  the  nun. 

"Louise  Duval  !"  exclaimed  the  Vicomte  ;  "discovered  at 
last,  and  a  rcligieuse  J  Ah  !  I  now  understand  why  she  never 


544  THE    PARISIANS. 

sought  me  out  when  I  reappeared  at  Paris.  Tidings  of  that 
sort  do  not  penetrate  the  walls  of  a  convent.  I  am  greatly 
obliged  to  you,  M.  de  Vandemar,  for  the  trouble  you  have  so 
kindly  taken.  This  poor  nun  is  related  to  me,  and  I  will  at 

once  obey  the  summons.  But  this  convent  des I  am 

ashamed  to  say  1  know  not  where  it  is.  A  long  way  off,  I 
suppose  ? " 

"Allow  me  to  be  your  guide,"  said  Raoul ;  "I  should  take 
it  as  a  favor  to  be  allowed  to  see  a  little  more  of  a  man  whom 
my  lost  brother  held  in  such  esteem." 

Victor  was  touched  by  this  conciliatory  speech,  and  in  a  few 
minutes  more  the  two  men  were  on  their  way  to  the  convent 
on  the  other  side  of  the  Seine. 

Victor  commenced  the  conversation  by  a  warm  and  heart- 
felt tribute  to  Enguerrand's  character  and  memory.  "  I  never," 
he  said,  "  knew  a  nature  more  rich  in  the  most  endearing  quali- 
ties of  youth  ;  so  gentle,  so  high-spirited,  rendering  every  vir- 
tue more  attractive,  and  redeeming  such  few  faults  or  foibles  as 
youth  so  situated  and  so  tempted  cannot  wholly  escape,  with 
an.  urbanity  not  conventional,  not  artificial,  but  reflected  from 
the  frankness  of  a  genial  temper  and  the  tenderness  of  a  gen- 
erous heart.  Be  comforted  for  his  loss,  my  kinsman.  A  brave 
death  was  the  proper  crown  of  that  beautiful  life." 

Raoul  made  no  answer,  but  pressed  gratefully  the  arm  now 
linked  within  his  own.  The  companions  walked  on  in  silence  ; 
Victor's  mind  settling  on  the  visit  he  was  about  to  make  to  the 
niece  so  long  mysteriously  lost,  and  now  so  unexpectedly 
found.  Louise  had  inspired  him  with  a  certain  interest  from 
her  beauty  and  force  of  character,  but  never  with  any  warm 
affection.  He  felt  relieved  to  find  that  her  life  had  found  its 
close  in  the  sanctuary  of  the  convent.  He  had  never  divested 
himself  of  a  certain  fear,  inspired  by  Louvier's  statement,  that 
she  might  live  to  bring  scandal  and  disgrace  on  the  name  he 
had  with  so  much  difficulty,  and  after  so  lengthened  an 
anguish,  partially  cleared  in  his  own  person. 

Raoul  left  De  Mauleon  at  the  gate  of  the  convent,  and  took 
his  way  towards  the  hospitals  where  he  visited,  and  the  poor 
whom  he  relieved. 

Victor  was  conducted  silently  into  the  convent  parloir;  and, 
after  waiting  there  several  minutes,  the  door  opened,  and  the 
Supe"rieure  entered.  As  she  advanced  towards  him,  with  stately 
Step  and  solemn  visage,  De  Mauleon  recoiled,  and  uttered  a 
half-suppressed  exclamation  that  partook  both  of  amaze  and 
awe.  Could  it  be  possible  ?  Was  this  majestic  woman,  with 


THE    PARISIANS.  545 

the  grave,  impassable  aspect,  once  the  ardent  girl  whose  ten- 
der letters  he  had  cherished  through  stormy  years,  and  only 
burned  on  the  night  before  the  most  perilous  of  his  battle- 
fields? This  the  one,  the  sole  one,  whom  in  his  younger 
dreams  he  had  seen  as  his  destined  wife  ?  It  was  so — it  was. 
Doubt  vanished  when  he  heard  her  voice  ;  and  yet  how  dif- 
ferent every  tone,  every  accent,  from  those  of  the  low,  soft, 
thrilling  music  that  had  breathed  in  the  voice  of  old  ! 

"  M.  de  Mauleon,"  said  the  Superieure  calmly,  "  I  grieve  to 
sadden  you  by  very  mournful  intelligence.  Yesterday  evening, 
when  the  Abbe  undertook  to  convey  to  you  the  request  of  our 
Sister  Ursula,  although  she  was  beyond  mortal  hope  of  recov- 
ery— as  otherwise  you  will  conceive  that  I  could  not  have 
relaxed  the  rules  of  this  house  so  as  to  sanction  your  visit — 
there  was  no  apprehension  of  immediate  danger.  It  was 
believed  that  her  sufferings  would  be  prolonged  for  some  days. 
I  saw  her  late  last  night  before  retiring  to  my  cell,  and  she 
seemed  even  stronger  than  she  had  been  for  the  last  week.  A 
sister  remained  at  watch  in  her  cell.  Towards  morning  she 
fell  into  apparently  quiet  sleep,  and  in  that  sleep  she  passed 
away."  The  Superieure  here  crossed  herself,  and  murmured 
pious  words  in  Latin. 

"Dead!  rny  poor  niece!"  said  Victor  feelingly,  roused 
from  his  stun  at  the  first  sight  of  the  Superieure  by  her  meas- 
ured tones,  and  the  melancholy  information  she  so  composedly 
conveyed  to  him.  "  I  cannot,  then,  even  learn  why  she  so 
wished  to  see  me  once  more,  or  what  she  might  have  requested 
at  my  hands  !  " 

"  Pardon,  M.  le  Vicomte.  Such  sorrowful  consolation  I  have 
resolved  to  afford  you,  not  without  scruples  of  conscience,  but 
not  without  sanction  of  the  excellent  Abbe  Vertpre,  whom  I 
summoned  early  this  morning  to  decide  my  duties  in  the  sacred 
office  I  hold.  As  soon  as  Sister  Ursula  heard  of  your  return 
to  Paris,  she  obtained  my  permission  to  address  to  you  a 
letter,  subjected,  when  finished,  to  my  perusal  and  •  sanction. 
She  felt  that  she  had  much  on  her  mind  which  her  feeble  state 
might  forbid  her  to  make  known  to  you  in  conversation  with 
sufficient  fulness  ;  and  as  she  could  only  have  seen  you  in 
presence  of  one  of  the  sisters,  she  imagined  that  there  would 
also  be  less  restraint  in  a  written  communication.  In  fine,  her 
request  was  that,  when  you  called,  I  might  first  place  this  let- 
ter in  your  hands,  and  allow  you  time  to  read  it,  before  being 
admitted  to  her  presence  ;  when  a  few  words,  conveying  your 
promise  to  attend  to  the  wishes  with  which  you  would  then  be 


546  THE    PARISIANS. 

acquainted,  would  suffice  for  an  interview  in  her  exhausted 
condition.  Do  I  make  myself  understood?  " 

"Certainly,  Madame — and  the  letter?" 

"  She  had  concluded  last  evening  ;  and  when  I  took  leave  of 
her  later  in  the  night,  she  placed  it  in  my  hands  for  approval. 
M.  le  Vicomte,  it  pains  me  to  say  that  there  is  much  in  the  tone 
of  that  letter  which  I  grieve  for  and  condemn.  Audit  was  my 
intention  to  point  this  out  to  our  sister  at  morning,  and  tell 
her  that  passages  must  be  altered  before  I  could  give  to  you  the 
letter.  Her  sudden  decease  deprived  me  of  this  opportunity. 
I  could  not,  of  course,  alter  or  erase  a  line,  a  word.  My  only 
option  was  to  suppress  the  letter  altogether,  or  give  it  you 
intact.  The  Abbe  thinks,  that  on  the  whole,  my  duty  does  not 
forbid  the  dictate  of  my  own  impulse,  my  own  feelings  ;  and  I 
now  place  this  letter  in  your  hands/' 

De  Maul£on  took  a  packet,  unsealed,  from  the  thin,  white 
fingers  of  the  Superieure  ;  and  as  he  bent  to  receive  it,  lifted 
towards  her  eyes  eloquent  with  a  sorrowful,  humble  pathos, 
in  which  it  was  impossible  for  the  heart  of  a  woman  who  had 
loved  not  to  see  a  reference  to  the  past  which  the  lips  did 
not  dare  to  utter. 

A  faint,  scarce  perceptible  blush  stole  over  the  marble  cheek 
of  the  nun.  But,  with  an  exquisite  delicacy,  in  which  survived 
the  woman  while  reigned  the  nun,  she  replied  to  the  appeal  : 

"  M.  Victor  de  Mauleon,  before,  having  thus  met,  we  part 
forever,  permit  a  poor  religieuse  to  say  with  what  joy — a  joy 
rendered  happier  because  it  was  tearful — I  have  learned  through 
the  Abbe  Vertpre"  that  tiie  honor  which,  as  between  man  and 
man,  no  one  who  had  once  known  you  could  ever  doubt,  you 
have  lived  to  vindicate  from  calumny." 

"Ah  ;  you  have  heard  that — at  last,  at  last  !  " 

"I  repeat — of  the  honor  thus  deferred,  I  never  doubted." 
The  Superieure  hurried  on.  "  Greater  joy  it  has  been  to  me 
to  hear  from  the  same  venerable  source  that,  while  found  brav- 
est among  the  defenders  of  your  co'untry,  you  are  clear  from 
all  alliance  with  the  assailants  of  your  God.  Continue  so, 
continue  so,  Victor  de  Mauleon." 

She  retreated  to  the  door,  and  then  turned  towards  him  with 
a  look  in  which  all  the  marble  had  melted  away  ;  adding,  with 
words  more  formally  mmlike,  yet  unmistakably  womanlike,  than 
those  which  had  gone  before  :  "  That  to  the  last  you  may  be 
true  to  God,  is  a  prayer  never  by  me  omitted." 

She  spoke,  and  vanished. 

In  a  kind  of  dim   and   dreamlike   bewilderment,  Victor  dc 


THE    PARISIANS.  547 

Mauleon  found  himself  without  the  walls  of  the  convent. 
Mechanically,  as  a  man  does  when  the  routine  of  his  life  is 
presented  to  him,  from  the  first  Minister  of  State  to  the  poor 
clown  at  a  suburban  theatre,  doomed  to  appear  at  their  posts, 
to  prose  on  a  Beer  Bill,  or  grin  through  a  horse-collar,  though 
their  hearts  are  bleeding  at  every  pore  with  some  household  or 
secret  affliction — mechanically  De  Mauleon  went  his  way 
towards  the  ramparts,  at  a  section  of  which  he  daily  drilled  his 
raw  recruits.  Proverbial  for  his  severity  towards  those  who 
offended,  for  the  cordiality  of  his  praise  of  those  who  pleased 
his  soldierly  judgment,  no  change  of  his  demeanor  was  visible 
that  morning,  save  that  he  might  be  somewhat  milder  to  the 
one,  somewhat  less  hearty  to  the  other.  This  routine  duty 
done,  he  passed  slowly  towards  a  more  deserted  because  a  more 
exposed  part  of  the  defences,  and  seated  himself  on  the  frozen 
sward  alone.  The  cannon  thundered  around  him.  He  heard 
unconsciously  ;  from  time  to  time  an  obus  hissed  and  splintered 
close  at  his  feet — he  saw  with  abstracted  eye.  His  soul  was  with 
the  past ;  and  brooding  over  all  that  in  the  past  lay  buried 
there,  came  over  him  a  conviction  of  the  vanity  of  the  human 
earth-bound  objects  for  which  we  burn  or  freeze,  far  more 
absolute  than  had  grown  out  of  the  worldly  cynicism  connected 
with  his  worldly  ambition.  The  sight  of  that  face,  associated 
with  the  one  pure  romance  of  his  reckless  youth,  the  face  of 
one  so  estranged,  so  serenely  aloft  from  all  memories  of  youth, 
of  romance,  of  passion,  smote  him  in  the  midst  of  the  new  hopes 
of  the  new  career,  as  the  look  on  the  skull  of  the  woman  he 
had  so  loved  and  so  mourned,  when  disburied  from  her  grave, 
smote  the  brilliant  noble  who  became  the  stern  reformer  of  La 
Trappe.  And  while  thus  gloomily  meditating,  the  letter  of  the 
poor  Louise  Duval  was  forgotten.  She  whose  existence  had 
so  troubled,  and  crossed,  and  partly  marred  the  lives  of 
others — she  scarcely  dead,  and  already  forgotten  by  her  near- 
est of  kin.  Well,  had  she  not  forgotten,  put  wholly  out  of  her 
mind,  all  that  was  due  to  those  much  nearer  to  her  than  is  an 
uncle  to  a  niece? 

The  short,  bitter,  sunless  day  was  advancing  towards  its 
decline,  before  Victor  roused  himself  with  a  quick,  impatient 
start  from  his  revery,  and  took  forth  the  letter  from  the  dead  nun. 

It  began  with  expressions  of  gratitude,  of  joy  at  the  thought 
that  she  should  see  him  again  before  she  died,  thank  him  for 
his  past  kindness,  and  receive,  she  trusted,  his  assurance  that 
he  would  attend  to  her  last  remorseful  injunctions.  I  pass 
over  much  that  followed  in  the  explanation  of  events  in  her  life 


548  THE    PARISIANS. 

sufficiently  known  to  the  reader.  She  stated,  as  the  strongest 
reason  why  she  had  refused  the  hand  of  Louvier,  her  knowl- 
edge that  she  should  in  due  time  become  a  mother — a  fact 
concealed  from  Victor,  secure  that  he  would  then  urge  her  not 
to  annul  her  informal  marriage,  but  rather  insist  on  the  cere- 
monies that  would  render  it  valid.  She  touched  briefly  on  her 
confidential  intimacy  with  Madame  Marigny,  the  exchange  of 
name  and  papers,  her  confinement  in  the  neighborhood  of  Aix, 
the  child  left  to  the  care  of  the  nurse,  the  journey  to  Munich 
to  find  the  false  Louise  Duval  was  no  more.  The  documents 
obtained  through  the  agent  of  her  easy-tempered  kinsman,  the 
late  Marquis  de  Rochebriant,  and  her  subsequent  domestication 
in  the  house  of  the  Von  Rudesheims — all  this  it  is  needless  to  do 
more  here  than  briefly  recapitulate.  The  letter  then  went  on  : 
"  While  thus  kindly  treated  by  the  family,  with  whom  nomi- 
nally a  governess,  I  was  on  the  terms  of  a  friend  with  Signor 
Ludovico  Cicogna,  an  Italian  of  noble  birth.  He  was  the  only 
man  I  ever  cared  for.  I  loved  him  with  frail  human  passion. 
I  could  not  tell  him  my  true  history.  I  could  not  tell  him  that 
I  had  a  child  ;  such  intelligence  would  have  made  him  renounce 
me  at  once.  He  had  a  daughter,  still  but  an  infant,  by  a 
former  marriage,  then  brought  up  in  France.  He  wished  to 
take  her  to  his  house,  and  his  second  wife  to  supply  the  place 
of  her  mother.  What  was  I  to  do  with  the  child  I  had  left 
near  Aix  ?  While  doubtful  and  distracted,  I  read  an  adver- 
tisement in  the  journals  to  the  effect  that  a  French  lady,  then 
staying  in  Coblentz,  wished  to  adopt  a  female  child  not  exceed- 
ing the  age  of  six :  the  child  to  be  wholly  resigned  to  her  by 
the  parents,  she  undertaking  to  rear  and  provide  for  it  as  her 
own.  I  resolved  to  go  to  Coblentz  at  once.  I  did  so.  I  saw 
this  lady.  She  seemed  in  affluent  circumstances,  yet  young, 
but  a  confirmed  invalid,  confined  the  greater  part  of  the  day  to 
her  sofa  by  some  malady  of  the  spine.  She  told  me  very 
frankly  her  story.  She  had  been  a  professional  dancer  on  the 
stage,  had  married  respectably,  quitted  the  stage,  become  a 
widow,  and  shortly  afterwards  been  seized  with  the  complaint 
that  would  probably  for  life  keep  her  a  secluded  prisoner  in 
her  room.  Thus  afflicted,  and  without  tie,  interest,  or  object 
in  the  world,  she  conceived  the  idea  of  adopting  a  child  that 
she  might  bring  up  to  tend  and  cherish  her  as  a  daughter.  In 
this,  the  imperative  condition  was  that  the  child  should  never 
be  resought  by  the  parents.  She  was  pleased  by  my  manner 
and  appearance  :  she  did  not  wish  her  adopted  daughter  to  be 
the  child  of  peasants.  She  asked  me  for  no  references,  made  no 


THE   PARISIANS.  549 

enquiries.  She  said  cordially  that  she  wished  for  no  knowledge 
that,  through  any  indiscretion  of  her  own,  communicated  to 
the  child,  might  lead  her  to  seek  the  discovery  of  her  real  pa- 
rents. In  fine,  I  left  Coblentz  on  the  understanding  that  I  was 
to  bring  the  infant,  and  if  it  pleased  Madame  Surville,  the 
agreement  was  concluded. 

"  I  then  repaired  to  Aix.  I  saw  the  child.  Alas  !  unnatural 
mother  that  I  was,  the  sight  only  more  vividly  brought  before 
me  the  sense  of  my  own  perilous  position.  Yet  the  child  was 
lovely  !  A  likeness  of  myself,  but  lovelier  far,  for  it  was  a  pure, 
innocent,  gentle  loveliness.  And  they  told  her  to  call  me 
'  Maman.'  Oh,  did  I  not  relent  when  I  heard  that  name  ?  No  ; 
it  jarred  on  my  ear  as  a  word  of  reproach  and  shame.  In  walk- 
ing with  the  infant  towards  the  railway  station,  imagine  my 
dismay  when  suddenly  I  met  the  man  who  had  been  taught  to 
believe  me  dead.  I  soon  discovered  that  his  dismay  was  equal 
to  my  own  ;  that  I  had  nothing  to  fear  from  his  desire  to  claim 
me.  It  did  occur  to  me  for  a  moment  to  resign  his  child 
to  him.  But  when  he  shrank  reluctantly  from  a  half  sugges- 
tion to  that  effect,  my  pride  was  wounded,  my  conscience 
absolved.  And,  after  all,  it  might  be  unsafe  to  my  future  to 
leave  with  him  any  motive  for  retracing  me.  I  left  him  hast- 
ily. I  have  never  seen  nor  heard  of  him  more.  I  took  the 
child  to  Coblentz.  Madame  Surville  was  charmed  with  its 
prettiness  and  prattle — charmed  still  more  when  I  rebuked  the 
poor  infant  for  calling  me  'Maman,'  and  said,  'Thy  real 
mother  is  here.'  Freed  from  my  trouble,  I  returned  to  the 
kind  German  roof  I  had  quitted,  and  shortly  after  became  the 
wife  of  Ludovico  Cicogna. 

"  My  punishment  soon  began.  His  was  a  light,  fickle, 
pleasure-hunting  nature.  He  soon  grew  weary  of  me.  My 
very  love  made  me  unamiable  to  him.  I  became  irritable, 
jeaious,  exacting.  His  daughter,  who  now  came  to  live  with 
us,  was  another  subject  of  discord.  I  knew  that  he  loved  her 
better  than  me.  I  became  a  harsh  stepmother  ;  and  Ludo- 
vico's  reproaches,  vehemently  made,  nursed  all  my  angriest 
passions.  But  a  son  of  this  new  marriage  was  born  to  myself. 
My  pretty  Luigi  !  how  my  heart  became  wrapped  up  in  him  ! 
Nursing  him,  I  forgot  resentment  against  his  father.  Well, 
poor  Cicogna  fell  ill  and  died.  I  mourned  him  sincerely;  but 
my  boy  was  left.  Poverty  then  fell  on  me — poverty  extreme. 
Cicogna's  sole  income  was  derived  from  a  post  in  the  Austrian 
dominion  in  Italy,  and  ceased  with  it.  He  received  a  small 
pension  in  compensation  ;  that  died  with  him. 


550  THE    PARISIANS. 

"At  this  time  an  Englishman,  with  whom  Ludovico  had 
made  acquaintance  in  Venice,  and  who  visited  often  at  our 
house  in-  Verona,  offered  me  his  hand.  He  had  taken  an 
extraordinary  liking  to  Isaura,  Cicogna's  daughter  by  his  first 
marriage.  But  I  think  his  proposal  was  dictated  partly  by 
compassion  for  me,  and  more  by  affection  for  her.  For  the 
sake  of  my  boy  Luigi  I  married  him.  He  was  a  good  man,  of 
retired,  learned  habits  with  which  I  had  no  sympathy.  His 
companionship  overwhelmed  me  with  ennui.  But  I  bore  it 
patiently  for  Luigi's  sake.  God  saw  that  my  heart  was  as  much 
as  ever  estranged  from  Him,  and  He  took  away  my  all  on 
earth,  my  boy.  Then  in  my  desolation  I  turned  to  our  Holy 
Church  for  comfort.  I  found  a  friend  in  the  priest,  my  con- 
fessor. I  was  startled  to  learn  from  him  how  guilty  I  had 
been — was  still.  Pushing  to  an  extreme  the  doctrines  of  the 
Church,  he  would  not  allow  that  my  first  marriage,  though  null 
by  law,  was  void  in  the  eyes  of  Heaven.  Was  not  the  death 
of  the  child  I  so  cherished  a  penalty  due  to  my  sin  towards 
the  child  I  had  Abandoned  ? 

"These  thoughts  pressed  on  me  night  and  day.  With  the 
consent  and  approval  of  the  good  priest,  I  determined  to  quit 
the  roof  of  M.  Selby,  and  to  devote  myself  to  the  discovery  of 
my  forsaken  Julie. 

"I  had  a  painful  interview  with  M.  Selby.  I  announced  my 
intention  to  separate  from  him.  I  alleged  as  a  reason  my  con- 
scientious repugnance  to  live  with  a  professed  heretic,  an  enemy 
to  our  Holy  Church.  When  M.  Selby  found  that  he  could  not 
shake  my  resolution,  he  lent  himself  to  it  with  the  forbearance 
and  generosity  which  he  had  always  exhibited.  On  our  mar- 
riage he  had  settled  on  me  five  thousand  pounds,  to  be  abso- 
lutely mine  in  the  event  of  his  death.  He  now  proposed  to 
concede  to  me  the  interest  on  that  capital  during  his  life,  and 
he  undertook  the  charge  of  my  step-daughter  Isaura,  and 
secured  to  her  allthe  rest  he  had  to  leave  ;  such  landed  prop- 
erty as  he  possessed  in  England  passing  to  a  distant  relative. 

"So  we  parted,  not  with  hostility — tears  were  shed  on  both 
sides.  I  set  out  for  Coblentz.  Madame  Surville  had  long 
since  quitted  that  town,  devoting  some  years  to  the  round  of 
various  mineral  spas  in  vain  hope  of  cure.  JSlot  without  some 
difficulty  I  traced  her  to  her  last  residence  in  the  neighborhood 
of  Paris,  but  she  was  then  no  more — her  death  accelerated  by 
the  shock  occasioned  by  the  loss  of  her  whole  fortune,  which 
she  had  been  induced  to  place  in  one  of  the  numerous  fraudu- 
lent companies  by  which  so  many  have  been  ruined.  Julie, 


THE    PARISIANS.  551 

who  was  with  her  at  the  time  of  her  death,  had  disappeared 
shortly  after  it,  none  could  tell  me  whither  ;  but  from  such 
hints  as  I  could  gather,  the  poor  child,  thus  left  destitute,  had 
been  betrayed  into  sinful  courses. 

''Probably  I  might  yet  by  searching  inquiry  have  found  her 
out  ;  you  will  say  it  was  my  duty  at  least  to  institute  such 
inquiry.  No  doubt  ;  1  now  remorsefully  feel  that  it  was.  I 
did  not  think  so  at  the  time.  The  Italian  priest  had  given  me 
a  few  letters  of  introduction  to  French  ladies  with  whom,  when 
they  had  sojourned  at  Florence,  he  had  made  acquaintance. 
These  ladies  were  very  strict  devotees,  formal  observers  of 
those  decorums  by  which  devotion  proclaims  itself  to  the  world. 
They  had  received  me  not  only  with  kindness,  but  with  marked 
respect.  They  chose  to  exalt  into  the  noblest  self-sacrifice  the 
act  of  my  leaving  M.  Selby's  house.  Exaggerating  the  simple 
cause  assigned  to  it  in  the  priest's  letter,  they  represented  me 
as  quitting  a  luxurious  home  and  an  idolizing  husband  rather 
than  continue  intimate  intercourse  with  the  enemy  of  my  relig- 
ion. This  new  sort  of  flattery  intoxicated  me  with  its  fumes. 
I  recoiled  from  the  thought  of  shattering  the  pedestal  to  which 
I  had  found  myself  elevated.  What  if  I  should  discover  my 
daughter  in  one  from  the  touch  of  whose  robe  these  holy 
women  would  recoil  as  from  the  rags  of  a  leper  !  No  !  it  would 
be  impossible  for  me  to  own  her — impossible  for  me  to  give  her 
the  shelter  of  my  roof.  Nay,  if  discovered  to  hold  any  com- 
mune with  such  an  outcast,  no  explanation,  no  excuse  short  of 
the  actual  truth,  would  avail  with  these  austere  judges  of  human 
error.  And  the  actual  truth  would  be  yet  deeper  disgrace.  I 
reasoned  away  my  conscience.  If  I  looked  for  example  in  the 
circles  in  which  I  had  obtained  reverential  place,  I  could  find 
no  instance  in  which  a  girl  who  had  fallen  from  virtue  was  not 
repudiated  by  her  nearest  relatives.  Nay,  when  I  thought  of 
my  own  mother,  had  not  her  father  refused  to  see  her,  to 
acknowledge  her  child,  from  no  other  offence  than  that  of  a 
iiidsallidnce  which  wounded  the  family  pride  ?  That  pride, 
alas  !  was  in  my  blood — my  sole  inheritance  from  the  family  I 
sprang  from. 

"  Thus  it  went  on,  till  I  had  grave  symptoms  of  a  disease 
which  rendered  the  duration  of  my  life  uncertain.  My  con- 
science awoke  and  tortured  me.  I  resolved  to  take  the  veil. 
Vanity  and  pride  again  !  My  resolution  was  applauded  by 
those  whose  opinion  had  so  swayed  my  mind  and  my  conduct. 
Before  I  retired  into  the  convent  from  which  I  write,  I  made 
legal  provision  as  to  the  bulk  of  the  fortune  which,  by  the 


552  THE    PARISIANS. 

death  of  M.  Selby,  has  become  absolutely  at  my  disposal.  One 
thousand  pounds  amply  sufficed  for  dotation  to  the  convent  : 
the  other  four  thousand  pounds  are  given  in  trust  to  the  emi- 
nent notary,  M.  Nadaud,  Rue .  On  applying  to  him,  you 

will  find  that  th"e  sum,  with  the  accumulated  interest,  is  be- 
queathed to  you — a  tribute  of  gratitude  for  the  assistance  you 
afforded  me  in  the  time  of  your  own  need,  and  the  kindness 
with  which  you  acknowledged  our  relationship  and  commiserated 
ray  misfortunes. 

"  But  oh,  my  uncle,  find  out — a  man  can  do  so  with  a  facility 
not  accorded  to  a  woman — what  has  become  of  this  poor  Julie, 
and  devote  what  you  may  deem  right  and  just  of  the  sum  thus 
bequeathed  to  place  her  above  want  and  temptation.  In  doing 
so,  I  know  you  will  respect  my  name  :  I  would  not  have  it 
dishonor  you,  indeed. 

"  I  have  been  employed  in  writing  this  long  letter  since  the 
day  I  heard  you  were  in  Paris.  It  has-,  exhausted  the  feeble 
remnants  of  my  strength.  It  will  be  given  to  you  before  the 
interview  I  at  once  dread  and  long  for,  and  in  that  interview 
you  will  not  rebuke  me.  Will  you,  my  kind  uncle  ?  No,  you 
will  only  soothe  and  pity  ! 

"Would  that  I  were  worthy  to  pray  for  others,  that  I  might 
add  :  '  May  the  Saints  have  you  in  their  keeping,  and  lead  you 
to  faith  in  the  Holy  Church,  which  has  power  to  absolve  from 
sins  those  who  repent  as  I  do.' ' 

The  letter  dropped  from  Victor's  hand.  He  took  it  up, 
smoothed  it  mechanically,  and  with  a  dim,  abstracted, 
bewildered,  pitiful  wonder.  Well  might  the  Superieure  have 
hesitated  to  allow  confessions,  betraying  a  mind  so  little  regu- 
lated by  genuine  religious  faith,  to  pass  into  other  hands. 
Evidently  it  was  the  paramount  duty  of  rescuing  from  want 
or  from  sin  the  writer's  forsaken  child,  that  had  overborne  all 
other  considerations  in  the  mind  of  the  Woman  and  the  Priest 
she  consulted. 

Throughout  that  letter,  what  a  strange  perversion  of  under- 
standing !  What  a  half-unconscious  confusion  of  wrong  and 
right !  The  duty  marked  out  so  obvious  and  so  neglected  ; 
even  the  religious  sentiment  awakened  by  the  conscience  so 
dividing  itself  from  the  moral  instinct  !  The  dread  of  being 
thought  less  religious  by  obscure  comparative  strangers 
stronger  than  the  moral  obligation  to  discover  and  reclaim  the 
child  for  whose  errors,  if  she  had  erred,  the  mother  who  so 
selfishly  forsook  her  was  alone  responsible  !  Even  at  the  last, 
at  the  approach  of  death,  the  love  for  a  name  she  had  never 


THE    PARISIANS.  553 

made  a  self-sacrifice  to  preserve  unstained  ;  and  that  conclud- 
ing exhortation — that  reliance  on  a  repentance  in  which  there 
was  so  qualified  a  reparation  ! 

More  would  Victor  de  Mauleon  have  wondered  had  he 
known  those  points  of  similarity  in  character,  and  on  the 
nature  of  their  final  bequests,  between  Louise  Duval  and  the 
husband  she  had  deserted.  By  one  of  those  singular  coinci- 
dences which,  if  this  work  be  judged  by  the  ordinary  rules 
presented  to  the  ordinary  novel-reader,  a  critic  would  not 
unjustly  impute  to  defective  invention  in  the  author,  the  pro- 
vision for  this  child,  deprived  of  its  natural  parents  during 
their  lives,  is  left  to  the  discretion  and  honor  of  trustees, 
accompanied  on  the  part  of  the  consecrated  Louise  and  "  the 
blameless  King,"  with  the  injunction  of  respect  to  their  worldly 
reputations — two  parents  so  opposite  in  condition,  in  creed,  in 
disposition,  yet  assimilating  in  that  point  of  individual  charac- 
ter in  which  it  touches  the  wide,  vague  circle  of  human  opinion. 
For  this,  indeed,  the  excuses  of  Richard  King  are  strong,  inas- 
much as  the  secrecy  he  sought  was  for  the  sake,  not  of  his  own 
memory,  but  that  of  her  whom  the  world  knew  only  as  his 
honored  wife.  The  conduct  of  Louise  admits  no  such  excuse  ; 
she  dies,  as  she  had  lived,  an  Egoist.  But,  whatever  the 
motives  of  the  parents,  what  is  the  fate  of  the  deserted  child  ? 
What  revenge  does  the  worldly  opinion,  which  the  parents 
would  escape  for  themselves,  inflict  on  the  innocent  infant  to 
whom  the  bulk  of  their  worldly  possessions  is  to  be  clandestinely 
conveyed  ?  Would  all  the  gold  of  Ophir  be  compensation 
enough  for  her  ! 

Slowly  De  Mauleon  roused  himself,  and  turned  from  the 
solitary  place  where  he  had  been  seated  to  a  more  crowded 
part  of  the  ramparts.  He  passed  a  group  of  young  Moblots, 
with  flowers  wreathed  round  their  gun-barrels.  "  If,"  said 
one  of  them  gayly,  "Paris  wants  bread,  it  never  wants  flowers." 
His  companions  laughed  merrily,  and  burst  out  into  a  scurrile 
song  in  ridicule  of  St.  Trochu.  Just  then  an  obus  fell  a  few 
yards  before  the  group.  The  sound  only  for  a  moment 
drowned  the  song,  but  the  splinters  struck  a  man  in  a  coarse, 
ragged  dress,  who  had  stopped  to  listen  to  the  singers.  At 
his  sharp  cry,  two  men  hastened  to  his  side  ;  one  was  Victor 
de  Mauleon  ;  the  other  was  a  surgeon,  who  quitted  another 
group  of  idlers — National  Guards — attracted  by  the  shriek 
that  summoned  his  professional  aid.  T1ie  poor  man  was  ter- 
ribly wounded.  The  surgeon,  glancing  at  De  Mauleon, 
shrugged,  his  shoulders,  and  muttered,  "  Pa§t  h'elp !  "  The 


554  THE    PARISIANS. 

sufferer  turned  his  haggard  eyes  on  the  Vicomte,  and  gasped 
out,  "  M.  de»Maul£on  ?  " 

"  That  is  my  name,"  answered  Victor,  surprised,  and  not 
immediately  recognizing  the  sufferer. 

"  Hist,  Jean  Lebeau  ! — look  at  me  :  you  recollect  me  now, 
Marc  le  Roux,  concierge  to  the  Secret  Council.  Ay,  I  found 
out  who  you  were  long  ago  ;  followed  you  home  from  the  last 
meeting  you  broke  up.  But  I  did  not  betray  you,  or  you 
would  have  been  murdered  long  since.  Beware  of  the  old 
set — beware  of — of —  "  Here  his  voice  broke  off  into  shrill 
exclamations  of  pain.  Curbing  his  last  agonies  with  a  power- 
ful effort,  he  faltered  forth  :  "  You  owe  me  a  service — see  to 
the  little  one  at  home — she  is  starving."  The  death-r«&  came 
on  ;  in  a  few  minutes  he  was  no  more. 

Victor  gave  orders  for  the  removal  of  the  corpse,  and  hur- 
ried away.  The  surgeon,  who  had  changed  countenance  when 
he  overheard  the  name  in  which  the  dying  man  had  addressed 
De  Mauleon,  gazed  silently  after  De  Mauleon's  retreating 
form,  and  then,  also  quitting  the  dead,  rejoined  the  group  he 
had  quitted.  Some  of  those  who  composed  it  acquired  evil 
renown  later  in  the  war  of  the  Communists,  and  came  to  dis- 
astrous ends  :  among  that  number  the  Pole  Loubinsky  and 
other  members  of  the  Secret  Council.  The  Italian  Raselli  was 
there  too,  but,  subtler  than  his  French  confreres  he  divined 
the  fate  of  the  Communists,  and  glided  from  it — safe  now  in 
his  native  land,  destined  there,  no  doubt,  to  the  funeral  honors 
which  Italy  bestows  on  the  dust  of  her  sons  who  have  advo- 
cated assassination  out  of  love  for  the  human  race. 

Amid  this  group,  too,  was  a  National  Guard,  strayed  from 
his  proper  post,  and  stretched  on  the  frozen  ground  ;  and, 
early  though  the  hour,  in  the  profound  sleep  of  intoxication. 

"  So,"  said  Loubinsky  ,"  you  have  found  your  errand  in 
vain,  Citizen  le  Noy  ;  another  victim  to  the  imbecility  of  our 
generals." 

"  And  partly  one  of  us,"  replied  the  Me'decin  des  Pauvres. 
"  You  remember  poor  Le  Roux,  who  kept  the  old  baroque 
where  the  Council  of  Ten  used  to  meet  ?  Yonder  he  lies." 

"  Don't  talk  of  the  Council  of  Ten.  What  fools  and  dupes 
we  were  made  by  that  vieux  gredin,  Jean  Lebeau  !  How  I 
wish  I  could  meet  him  again  !  " 

Gaspard  le  Noy  sailed  sarcastically.  "  So  much  the  worse 
for  you  if  you  did.  A  muscular  and  a  ruthless  fellow  is  that 
Jean  Lebeau !  "  Therewith  he  turned  to  the  drunken  sleeper 
and  woke  him  up  with  a  shake  and  %  kick, 


THE    PARISIANS.  555 

"Avmand — Armand  Monnier,  I  say,  rise,  rub  your  eyes! 
What  if  you  are  called  to  your  post  ?  What  if  you  are  shamed 
as  a  deserter  and  a  coward  ?  " 

Armand  turned,  rose  with  an  effort  from  the  recumbent  to 
the  sitting  posture,  and  stared  dizzily  in  the  face  of  the 
Mtdecin  des  Pauvres. 

"I  was  dreaming  that  I  had  caught  by  the  throat,"  said 
Armand  wildly,  "  the  aristo  who  shot  my  brother  j  and  lo, 
there  were  two  men,  Victor  de  Mauleon  and  Jean  Lebeau." 

"  Ah  !  there  is  something  in  dreams,"  said  the  surgeon. 
"  Once  in  a  thousand  times  a  dream  comes  true." 


CHAPTER  V. 

THE  time  now  came  when  all  provision  of  food  or  of  fuel 
failed  the  modest  household  of  Isaura  ;  and  there  was  not  only 
herself  and  the  Venosta  to  feed  and  warm,  there  were  the  ser- 
vants whom  they  had  brought  from  Italy,  and  had  not  the 
heart  now  to  dismiss  to  the  certainty  of  famine.  True,  one  of 
the  three,  the  man,  had  returned  to  his  native  land  before  the 
commencement  of  the  siege  ;  but  the  two  women  had  remained. 
They  supported  themselves  now  as  they  could  on  the  meagre 
rations  accorded  by  the  government.  Still  Isaura  attended 
the  ambulance  to  which  she  was  attached.  From  the  ladies 
associated  with  her  she  could  readily  have  obtained  ample  sup- 
plies :  but  they  had  no  conception  of  her  real  state  of  destitu- 
tion ;  and  there  was  a  false  pride  generally  prevalent  among 
the  respectable  classes,  which  Isaura  shared,  that  concealed 
distress  lest  alms  should  be  proffered. 

The  destitution  of  the  household  had  been  carefully  con- 
cealed from  the  parents  of  Gustave  Rameau  until,  one  day, 
Madame  Rameau,  entering  at  the  hour  which  she  general!}', 
and  her  husband  sometimes,  came  for  a  place  by  the  fireside 
and  a  seat  at  the  board,  found  on  the  one  only  ashes,  on  the 
other  a  ration  of  the  black,  nauseous  compound  which  had 
become  the  substitute  for  bread. 

Isaura  was  absent  on  her  duties  at  the  ambulance  hospital — 
purposely  absent,  for  she  shrank  from  the  bitter  task  of  mak- 
ing clear  to  the  friends  of  her  betrothed  the  impossibility  of 
continuing  the  aid  to  their  support  which  their  son  had 
neglected  to  contribute  ;  and  still  more  from  the  comment  which 
she  knew  they  would  make  on  his  conduct,  in  absenting  him- 
self so  wholly  of  late,  and  in  the  time  of  such  trial  and  pressure, 


556  THE    PARISIANS. 

both  from  them  and  from  herself.  Truly,  she  rejoiced  at  that 
absence  so  far  as  it  affected  herself.  Every  hour  of  the  day 
she  silently  asked  her  conscience  whether  she  were  not  now 
absolved  from  a  promise  won  from  her  only  by  an  assurance 
that  she  had  power  to  influence  for  good  the  life  that  now  vol- 
untarily separated  itself  from  her  own.  As  she  had  never 
loved  Gustave,  so  she  felt  no  resentment  at  the  indifference 
his  conduct  manifested.  On  the  contrary,  she  hailed  it  as 
a  sign  that  the  annulment  of  their  betrothal  would  be  as  wel- 
come to  him  as  to  herself.  And  if  so,  she  could  restore  to  him 
the  sort  of  compassionate  friendship  she  had  learned  to  cherish 
in  the  hour  of  his  illness  and  repentance.  She  had  resolved  to 
seize  the  first  opportunity  he  afforded  to  her  of  speaking  to 
him  with  frank  and  truthf-ul  plainness.  But,  meanwhile,  her 
gentle  nature  recoiled  from  the  confession  of  her  resolve  to 
appeal  to  Gustave  himself  for  the  rupture  of  their  engagement. 

Thus  the  Venosta  alone  received  Madame  Rameau  ;  and 
while  that  lady  was  still  gazing  round  her  with  an  emotion  too 
deep  for  immediate  utterance,  her  husband  entered  with  an 
expression  of  face  new  to  him — the  look  of  a  man  who  has 
been  stung  to  anger,  and  who  has  braced  his  mind  to  some 
stern  determination.  This  altered  countenance  of  the  good- 
tempered  bourgeois  was  not,  however,  noticed  by  the  two 
women.  The  Venosta  did  not  even  raise  her  eyes  to  it,  as 
with  humbled  accents  she  said  :  "  Pardon,  dear  Monsieur, 
pardon,  Madame,  our  want  of  hospitality  ;  it  is  not  our  hearts 
that  fail.  We  kept  our  state  from  you  as  long  as  we  could. 
Now  it  speaks  for  itself  :  '  La  fame  e  tin  bratto  festin?  " 

"  Oh,  Madame  !  and  oh,  my  poor  Isaura  !  "  cried  Madame 
Rameau,  bursting  into  tears.  "So  we  have  been  all  this  time 
a  burden  on  you — aided  to  bring  such  want  on  you  !  How 
can  we  ever  be  forgiven  ?  And  my  son — to  leave  us  thus — 
not  even  to  tell  us  where  to  find  him  ! " 

"  Do  not  degrade  us,  my  wife,"  said  M.  Rameau,  with  unex- 
pected dignity,  "by  a  word  to  imply  that  we  would  stoop  to 
sue  for  support  to  our  ungrateful  child.  No,  we  will  not 
starve.  I  am  strong  enough  still  to  find  food  for  you.  I  will 
apply  for  restoration  to  the  National  Guard.  They  have  aug- 
mented the  pay  to  married  men  ;  it  is  now  nearly  two  francs 
and  a  half  a  day  to  a  pere  de  famille,  and  on  that  pay  we  all 
can  at  least  live.  Courage,  my  wife  !  I  will  go  at  once  for 
employment.  Many  men  older  than  I  am  are  at  watch  on  the 
ramparts,  and  will  march  to  the  battle  on  the  next  sortie." 

"It  shall  not  be  so,"  exclaimed  Madame  Rameau  vehement- 


THE   PARISIANS.  $57 

ly,  and  winding  her  arm  round  her  husband's  neck.  "  I 
loved  my  son  better  than  thee  once,  more  the  shame  to  me. 
Now,  I  would  rather  lose  twenty  such  sons  than  peril  thy  life,  my 
Jacques  !  Madame,"  she  continued,  turning  to  the  Venosta, 
"  thou  wert  wiser  than  I.  Thou  wert  ever  opposed  to  the 
union  between  thy  friend  and  my  son.  I  felt  sore  with  thee 
for  it — a  mother  is  so  selfish  when  she  puts  herself  in  the  place 
of  her  child.  I  thought  that  only  through  marriage  with  one 
so  pure,  so  noble,  so  holy,  Gustave  could  be  saved  from  sin  and 
evil.  I  am  deceived.  A  man  so  heartless  to  his  parents,  so 
neglectful  of  his  affianced,  is  not  to  be  redeemed.  I  brought 
about  this  betrothal :  tell  Isaura  that  I  release  her  from  it.  I 
have  watched  her  closely  since  she  was  entrapped  into  it.  I 
know  how  miserable  the  thought  of  it  has  made  her,  though,  in 
her  sublime  devotion  to  her  plighted  word,  she  sought  to  con- 
ceal from  me  the  real  state  of  her  heart.  If  the  betrothal 
bring  such  sorrow,  what  would  the  union  do  !  Tell  her  this' 
from  me.  Come  Jacques,  come  away  !  " 

"  Stay,  Madame  !  "  exclaimed  the  Venosta,  her  excitable 
nature  much  affected  by  this  honest  outburst  of  feeling.  "  It 
is  true  that  I  did  oppose,  so  far  as  I  could,  my  poor  Piccola  s 
engagement  with  M.  Gustave.  But  I  dare  not  not  do  your 
bidding.  Isaura  would  not  listen  to  me.  And  let  us  be  just  ; 
M.  Gustave  may  be  able  satisfactorily  to  explain  his  seeming 
indifference  and  neglect.  His  health  is  always  very  delicate  ; 
perhaps  he  may  be  again  dangerously  ill.  He  serves  in  the 
National  Guard  ;  perhaps" — she  paused,  but  the  mother  con- 
jectured the  word  left  unsaid,  and,  clasping  her  hands,  cried 
out  in  anguish  :  "  Perhaps  dead  ! — and  we  have  wronged  him  ! 
Oh,  Jacques,  Jacques  !  how  shall  we  find  out — how  discover 
our  boy  ?  Who  can  tell  us  where  to  search  ?  At  the  hos- 
pital— or  in  the  cemeteries  ?  "  At  the  last  word  she  dropped 
into  a  seat,  and  her  whole  frame  shook  with  her  sobs. 

Jacques  approached  her  tenderly,  and  kneeling  by  her  side, 
said  : 

"  No,  m'amie,  comfort  thyself,  if  it  be  indeed  comfort  to 
learn  that  thy  son  is  alive  and  well.  For  my  part,  I  know  not 
if  I  would  not  rather  he  had  died  in  his  innocent  childhood.  I 
have  seen  him,  spoken  to  him.  I  know  where  he  is  to  be 
found." 

"  You  do,  and  concealed  it  from  me  ?     Oh,  Jacques  !  " 

"  Listen  to  me,  wife,  and  you  too,  Madame  ;  for  what  I  have 
to  say  should  be  made  known  to  Mademoiselle  Cicogna.  Some 
time  since,  on  the  night  of  the  famous  sortie,  when  at  my  post 


558  THE   PARISIANS. 

on  the  ramparts,  I  was  told  that  Gustave  had  joined  himself 
to  the  most  violent  of  the  Red  Republicans,  and  had  uttered 
at  the  Club  de  la  Vengeance  sentiments,  of  which  I  will  only  say 
that  I,  his  father  and  a  Frenchman,  hung  my  head  with  shame 
when  they  were  repeated  to  me.  I  resolved  to  go  to  the  club 
myself.  I  did.  I  heard  him  speak — heard  him  denounce 
Christianity  as  the  instrument  of  tyrants." 

"  Ah  !  "  cried  the  two  women,  with  a  simultaneous  shudder. 

"When  the  assembly  broke  up,  I  waylaid  him  at  the  door. 
I  spoke  to  him  seriously.  I  told  him  what  anguish  such  an- 
nouncement of  blasphemous  opinions  would  inflict  on  his  pious 
mother.  I  told  him  I  should  deem  it  my  duty  to  inform  Ma- 
demoiselle Cicogna,  and  warn  her  against  the  union  on  which 
he  had  told  us  his  heart  was  bent.  He  appeared  sincerely  moved 
by  what  I  said  ;  implored  me  to  keep  silence  towards  his  mother 
and  his  betrothed  ;  and  promised,  on  that  condition,  to  relin- 
quish at  once  what  he  called  'his  career  as  an  orator,'  and  ap- 
pear no  more  at  such  execrable  clubs.  On  this  understanding 
I  held  my  tongue.  Why,  with  such  other  causes  of  grief  and 
suffering,  should  I  tell  thee,  poor  wife,  of  a  sin  that  I  hoped 
thy  son  had  repented  and  would  not  repeat?  And  Gustave 
kept  his  word.  He  has  never,  so 'far  as  I  know,  attended,  at 
least  spoken,  at  the  Red  clubs  since  that  evening." 

"Thank  Heaven  so  far,"  murmured  Madame  Rameau. 

"  So  far,  yes  ;  but  hear  more.  A  little  time  after  I  thus  met 
him  he  changed  his  lodging,  and  did  not  confide  to  us  his  new 
address,  giving  as  a  reason  to  us  that  he  wished  to  avoid  all 
clue  to  his  discovery  by  that  pertinacious  Mademoiselle  Julie." 

Rameau  had  here  sunk  his  voice  into  a  whisper,  intended 
only  for  his  wife,  but  the  ear  of  the  Venosta  was  fine  enough  to 
catch  the  sound,  and  she  repeated:  "Mademoiselle  Julie.' 
Santa  Maria!  who  is  she  ?" 

"Oh!  "  said  M.  Rameau,  with  a  shrug  of  his  shoulders,  and  with 
true  Parisian  sangfroid  as  to  such  matters  of  morality,  "a  trifle 
not  worth  considering.  Of  course  a  good-looking  garcon  like 
Gustave  must  have  his  little  affairs  of  the  heart  before  he  set- 
tles for  life.  Unluckily,  amongst  those  of  Gustave  was  one 
with  a  violent-tempered  girl  who  persecuted  him  when  he  left 
her,  and  he  naturally  wished  to  avoid  all  chance  of  a  silly 
scandal,- if  only  out  of  respect  to  the  dignity  of  his  fiancee. 
But  I  found  that  was  not  the  true  motive,  or  at  least  the  only 
one,  for  concealment.  Prepare  yourself,  my  poor  wife.  Thou 
hast  heard  of  these  terrible  journals  which  the  decheance  has 
Jet  loose  upon  us.  Our  unhappy  boy  is  the  principal  writer  of 


THE  PARISIANS.  559 

one    of  the   worst   of   them,  under  the  name   of  '  Diderot  le 
Jeune.'  ' 

"  What  !  "  cried  the  Venosta.  "  That  monster  !  The  good 
Abbe  Vertpre  was  telling  us  of  the  writings  with  that  name 
attached  to  them.  The  Abbe  himself  is  denounced  by  name 
as  one  of  those  meddling  priests  who  are  to  be  constrained  to 
serve  as  soldiers  or  pointed  out  to  the  vengeance  of  the  canaille. 
Isaura's^fa#<"/  a  blasphemer  !  " 

"  Hush,  hush  !  "  said  Madame  Rameau,  rising,  very  pale  but 
self-collected.  "How  do  you  know  this,  Jacques?" 

"  From  the  lips  of  Gustave  himself.  I  heard  first  of  it  yester- 
day from  one  of  the  young  reprobates  with  whom  he  used  to 
be  familiar,  and  who  even  complimented  me  on  the  rising  fame 
of  my  son,  and  praised  the  eloquence  of  his  article  that  day. 
But  I  would  not  believe  him.  I  bought  the  journal — here  it 
is  ;  saw  the  name  and  address  of  the  printer  ;  went  this  morn- 
ing to  the  office,  was  there  told  that  '  Diderot  le  Jeune '  was 
within  revising  the  press ;  stationed  myself  by  the  street  door, 
and  when  Gustave  came  out  I  seized  his  arm,  and  asked  him 
to  say  Yes  or  No  if  he  was  the  author  of  this  infamous  article — 
this  which  I  now  hold  in  my  hand.  He  owned  the  author- 
ship with  pride  ;  talked  wildly  of  the  great  man  he-was,  of  the 
great  things  he  was  to  do;  said  that,  in  hitherto  concealing  his 
true  name,  he  had  done  all  he  could  to  defer  to  the  bigoted 
prejudices  of  his  parents  and  his  fiance"e;  and  that  if  genius, 
like  fire,  would  find  its  way  out,  he  could  not  help  it ;  that  a 
time  was  rapidly  coming  when  his  opinions  would  be  upper- 
most ;  that  since  October  the  Communists  were  gaining  ascend- 
ancy, and  only  waited  the  end  of  the  siege  to  put  down  the 
present  government,  and  with  it  all  hypocrisies  and  shams,  relig- 
ious or  social.  My  wife,  he  was  rude  to  me,  insulting ;  but  he 
had  been  drinking — that  made  him  incautious  ;  and  he  contin- 
ued to  walk  by  my  side  towards  his  own  lodging,  on  reaching 
which  he  ironically  invited  me  to  enter,  saying,  'I  should  meet 
there  men  who  would  soon  argue  me  out  of  my  obsolete  notions.' 
You  may  go  to  him,  wife,  now,  if  you  please.  I  will  not,  nor 
will  I  take  from  him  a  crust  of  bread.  I  came  hither  deter- 
mined to  tell  the  young  lady  all  this,  if  I  found  her  at  home. 
I  should  be  a  dishonored  man  if  I  suffered  her  to  be  cheated 
into  misery.  There,  Madame  Venosta,  there  !  Take  that 
journal,  show  it  to  Mademoiselle  ;  and  report  to  her  all  I  have 
said." 

M.  Rameau,  habitually  the  mildest  of  men,  had,  in  talking, 
worked  himself  up  into  positive  fury. 


560  ftffc    PARISIANS. 

His  wife,  calmer,  but  more  deeply  affected,  made  a  plteouS 
sign  to  the  Venosta  not  to  say  more,  and  without  other  saluta- 
tion or  adieu  took  her  husband's  arm,  and  led  him  from  the 
house. 

CHAPTER  VI. 

OBTAINING  from  her  husband  Gustave's  address,  Madame 
Rameau  hastened  to  her  son's  apartment  alone  through  the 
darkling  streets.  The  house  in  which  he  lodged  was  in  a  differ- 
ent quarter  from  that  in  which  Isaura  had  visited  him.  Then, 
the  street  selected  was  still  in  the  centre  of  the  beau  monde; 
now,  it  was  within  the  precincts  of  that  section  of  the  many- 
faced  capital  in  which  the  beau  monde  was  held  in  detestation 
or  scorn  ;  still  the  house  had  certain  pretensions,  boasting  a 
courtyard  and  a  porter's  lodge.  Madame  Rameau,  instructed 
to  mount  au  second,  found  the  door  ajar,  and,  entering,  per- 
ceived on  the  table  of  the  little  salon  the  remains  of  a  feast 
which,  however  untempting  it  might  have  been  in  happier 
times,  contrasted  strongly  the  meagre  fare  of  which  Gustave's 
parents  had  deemed  themselves  fortunate  to  partake  at  the 
board  of  his  betrothed  ;  remnants  of  those  viands  which  offered 
to  the  inquisitive  epicure  an  experiment  in  food  much  too 
costly  for  the  popular  stomach — dainty  morsels  of  elephant, 
hippopotamus,  and  wolf,  interspersed  with  half-emptied  bottles 
of  varied  and  high-priced  wines.  Passing  these  evidences  of 
unseasonable  extravagance  with  a  mute  sentiment  of  anger  and 
disgust,  Madame  Rameau  penetrated  into  a  small  cabinet,  the 
door  of  which  was  also  ajar,  and  saw  her  son  stretched  on  his 
bed  half  dressed,  breathing  heavily-in  the  sleep  which  follows 
intoxication.  She  did  not  attempt  to  disturb  him.  She  placed 
herself  quietly  by  his  side,  gazing  mournfully  on  the  face  which 
she  had  once  so  proudly  contemplated,  now  haggard  and  faded, 
still  strangely  beautiful,  though  it  was  the  beauty  of  ruin. 

From  time  to  time  he  stirred  uneasily,  and  muttered  broken 
words,  in  which  fragments  of  his  own  delicately  worded  verse 
were  incoherently  mixed  up  with  ribald  slang  addressed  to 
imaginary  companions.  In  his  dreams  he  was  evidently  living 
over  again  his  late  revel,  with  episodical  diversions  into  the 
poet-world,  of  which  he  was  rather  a  vagrant  nomad  than  a 
settled  cultivator.  Then  she  would  silently  bathe  his  feverish 
temples  with  the  perfumed  water  she  found  on  his  dressing- 
table.  And  so  she  watched  till,  in  the  middle  of  the  night,  he 
woke  up  and  recovered  the  possession  of  his  reason  with  a 


THE    PARISIANS.  561 

quickness  that  surprised  Madame  Rameau.  He  was,  indeed, 
one  of  those  men  in  whom  excess  of  drink,  when  slept  off,  is 
succeeded  by  extreme  mildness,  the  effect  of  nervous  exhaus- 
tion, and  by  a  dejected  repentance,  which  to  his  mother  seemed 
a  propitious  lucidity  of  the  moral  sense. 

Certainly  on  seeing  her  he  threw  himself  on  her  breast,  and 
began  to  shed  tears.  Madame  Rameau  had  not  the  heart  to 
reproach  him  sternly.  But  by  gentle  degrees  she  made  him 
comprehend  the  pain  he  had  given  to  his  father,  and  the  desti- 
tution in  which  he  had  deserted  his  parents  and  his  affianced. 
In  his  present  mood  Gustave  was  deeply  affected  by  these  rep- 
resentations. He  excused  himself  feebly  by  dwelling  on  the 
excitement  of  the  times,  the  preoccupation  of  his  mind,  the 
example  of  his  companions  ;  but  with  his  excuses  he  mingled 
passionate  expressions  of  remorse,  and  before  daybreak  mother 
and  son  were  completely  reconciled.  Then  he  fell  into  a  tran- 
quil sleep  ;  and  Madame  Rameau,  quite  worn  out,  slept  also  in 
the  chair  beside  him,  her  arm  around  his  neck.  He  awoke 
before  she  did  at  a  late  hour  in  the  morning  ;  and  stealing  from 
her  arm,  went  to  his  secretaire,  and  took  forth  what  money  he 
found  there,  half  of  which  he  poured  into  her  lap,  kissing  her 
till  she  awoke. 

"  Mother,"  he  said,  "  henceforth  I  will  work  for  thee  and 
my  father.  Take  this  trifle  now  ;  the  rest  I  reserve  for 
Isaura." 

"  Joy  !  I  have  found  my  boy  again.  But  Isaura,  I  fear  that 
she  will  not  take  thy  money,  and  all  thought  of  her  must  also 
be  abandoned." 

Gustave  had  already  turned  to  his  looking-glass,  and  was 
arranging  with  care  his  dark  ringlets  ;  his  personal  vanity — his 
remorse  appeased  by  this  pecuniary  oblation — had  revived. 

"  No,"  he  said  gayly,  "  I  don't  think  I  shall  abandon  her  ; 
and  it  is  not  likely,  when  she  sees  and  hears  me,  that  she  can 
wish  to  abandon  me  !  Now  let  us  breakfast,  and  then  I  will  go 
at  once  to  her." 

In  the  mean  while,  Isaura,  on  her  return  to  her  apartment  at 
the  wintry  nightfall,  found  a  cart  stationed  at  the  door,  and 
the  Venosta  on  the  threshold,  superintending  the  removal  of 
various  articles  of  furniture — indeed,  all  such  articles  as  were 
not  absolutely  required. 

"  Oh,  Piceola  !  "  she  said,  with  an  attempt  at  cheerfulness,  "  I 
did  not  expect  thee  back  so  soon.  Hush !  I  have  made  a 
famous  bargain.  I  have  found  a  broker  to  buy  these  things 
which  we  don't  want  just  at  present,  and  can  replace  by  new 


5&i  THE   PARISIANS. 

and  prettier  things  when  the  siege  is  over  and  we  get  our 
money.  The  broker  pays  down  on  the  nail,  and  thou  wilt  not 
go  to  bed  without  supper.  There  are  no  ills  which  are  not 
more  supportable  after  food." 

"  Isaura  smiled  faintly,  kissed  the  Venosta's  cheek,  and 
ascended  with  weary  steps  to  the  sitting-room.  There  she 
seated  herself  quietly,  looking  with  abstracted  eyes  round  the 
bare,  dismantled  space  by  the  light  of  the  single  candle. 

When  the  Venosta  re-entered,  she  was  followed  by  the  ser- 
vants, bringing  in  a  daintier  meal  than  they  had  known  for 
days — a  genuine  rabbit,  potatoes,  marrons  glace's,  a  bottle  of 
wine,  and  a  pannier  of  wood.  The  fire  was  soon  lighted,  the 
Venosta  plying  the  bellows.  It  was  not  till  this  banquet,  of 
which  Isaura,  faint  as  she  was,  scarcely  partook,  had  been 
remitted  to  the  two  Italian  women-servants,  and  another  log 
been  thrown  on  the  hearth,  that  the  Venosta  opened  the  sub- 
ject which  was  pressing  on  her  heart.  She  did  this  with  a  joy- 
ous smile,  taking  both  Isaura's  hands  in  her  own,  and  stroking 
them  fondly. 

"  My  child,  I  have  such  good  news  for  thee  !  Thou  hast 
escaped — thou  art  free  !  "  And  then  she  related  all  that  M. 
Rameau  had  said,  and  finished  by  producing  the  copy  of  Gus- 
tave's  unhallowed  journal. 

When  she  had  read  the  latter,  which  she  did  with  compressed 
lips  and  varying  color,  the  girl  fell  on  her  knees — not  to  thank 
Heaven  that  she  would  now  escape  a  union  from  which  her 
soul  so  recoiled  ;  not  that  she  was  indeed  free,  but  to  pray, 
with  tears  rolling  down  her  cheeks,  that  God  would  yet  save  to 
Himself,  and  to  good  ends,  the  soul  that  she  had  failed  to  bring 
to  Him.  All  previous  irritation  against  Gustave  was  gone  :  all 
had  melted  into  an  ineffable  compassion. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

WHEN,  a  little  before  noon,  Gustave  was  admitted  by  the  ser- 
vant into  Isaura's  salon,  its  desolate  condition,  stripped  of  all 
its  pretty  feminine  elegances,  struck  him  with  a  sense  of  dis- 
comfort to  himself  which  superseded  any  more  remorseful  sen- 
timent. The  day  was  intensely  cold  :  the  single  log  on  the 
hearth  did  not  burn  ;  there  were  only  two  or  three  chairs  in 
the  room  ;  even  the  carpet,  which  had  been  of  gayly  colored 
Aubusson,  was  gone.  His  teeth  chattered  ;  and  he  only  replied 
by  a  dreary  nod  to  the  servant,  who  informed  him  that  Ma- 


THE    PARISIANS.  jdj 

dame   Venosta  was   gone  out,  and  Mademoiselle  had  not  yet 
quited  her  own  room. 

If  there  be  a  thing  which  a  true  Parisian  of  Rameau's  stamp 
associates. with  love  of  woman,  it  is  a  certain  sort  of  elegant 
surroundings — a  pretty  boudoir,  a  cheery  hearth,  an  easy  fa u- 
teuil.  In  the  absence  of  such  attributes,  "fugit  retro  Venus" 
If  the  Englishman  invented  the  word  comfort,  it  is  the  Parisian 
who  most  thoroughly  comprehends  the  thing.  And  he  resents 
the  loss  of  it  in  any  house  where  he  has  been  accustomed  to 
look  for  it,  as  a  personal  wrong  to  his  feelings. 

Left  for  some  minutes  alone,  Gustave  occupied  himself  with 
kindling  the  log,  and  muttering  :  "Par  tons  les  diables,  guel 
thien  de  rhume  je  vat's  aitraper  /"  He  turned  as  he  heard  ihe 
rustle  of  a  robe  and  a  light,  slow  step.  Isaura  stood  before  him. 
Her  aspect  startled  him.  He  had  come  prepared  to  expect 
grave  displeasure  and  a  frigid  reception.  But  the  expression 
of  Isaura's  face  was  more  kindly,  more  gentle,  more  ten- 
der than  he  had  seen  it  since  the  day  she  had  accepted  his 
suit. 

Knowing  from  his  mother  what  his  father  had  said  to  his 
prejudice,  he  thought  within  himself  :  "  After  all,  the  poor 
girl  loves  me  better  than  I  thought.  She  is  sensible  and 
enlightened  ;  she  cannot  pretend  to  dictate  an  opinion  to  a 
man  like  me." 

He  approached  with  a  complacent,  self-assured  mien,  and 
took  her  hand,  which  she  yielded  to  him  quietly,  leading  her 
to  one  of  the  few  remaining  chairs,  and  seating  himself  beside 
her. 

"  Dear  Isaura,"  he  said,  talking  rapidly  all  the  while  he  per- 
formed this  ceremony,  "  I  need  not  assure  you  of  my  utter 
ignorance  of  the  state  to  which  the  imbecility  of  our  govern- 
ment, and  the  cowardice,  or  rather  the  treachery,  of  our  gen- 
erals, has  reduced  you.  I  only  heard  of  it  late  last  night  from 
my  mother.  .  I  hasten  to  claim  my  right  to  share  with  you  the 
humble  resources  which  I  have  saved  by  the  intellectual  labors 
that  have  absorbed  all  such  moments  as  my  military  drudgeries 
left  to  the  talents  which,  even  at  such  a  moment,  paralyzing 
minds  less  energetic,  have  sustained  me"; — and  therewith  he 
poured  several  pieces  of  gold  and  silver  on  the  table  beside 
her  chair. 

"  Gustave,"  then  said  Isaura,  "  I  am  well  pleased  that  you 
thus  prove  that  I  was  not  mistaken  when  I  thought  and  said 
that,  despite  all  appearances,  all  errors,  your  heart  was  good. 
Oh,  do  but  follow  its  true  impulses,  and — " 


564  *tt£  PARISIANS. 

"  Its  impulses  lead  me  ever  to  thy  feet,  interrupted  Crust&v6, 
with  a  fervor  which  sounded  somewhat  theatrical  and  hollow. 

The  girl  smiled,  not  bitterly,  not  mockingly  ;  but  Gustave 
did  not  like  the  smile. 

"  Poor  Gustave,"  she  said,  with  .a  melancholy  pathos  in  her 
soft  voice,  "  do  you  not  understand  that  the  time  has  come 
when  such  commonplace  compliments  ill  suit  our  altered  posi- 
tions to  each  other  ?  Nay,  listen  to  me  patiently  ;  and  let  not 
my  words  in  this  last  interview  pain  you  to  recall.  If  either 
of  us  be  to  blame  in  the  engagement  hastily  contracted,  it  is  f. 
Gustave,  when  you,  exaggerating  in  your  imagination  the 
nature  of  your  sentiments  for  me,  said  with  such  earnestness 
that  on  my  consent  to  our  union  depended  your  health,  your 
life,  your  career  ;  that  if  I  withheld  that  consent  you  were  lost, 
and  in  despair  would  seek  distraction  from  thought  in  all  from 
which  your  friends,  your  mother,  the  duties  imposed  upon 
Genius  for  the  good  of  man  to  the  ends  of  God,  should  with- 
hold and  save  you — when  you  said  all  this,  and  I  believed  it,  I 
felt  as  if  Heaven  commanded  me  not  to  desert  the  soul  which 
appealed  to  me  in  the  crisis  of  its  str-uggle  and  peril.  Gustave, 
I  repent ;  I  was  to  blame." 

"  How  to  blame  ?  " 

"  I  overrated  my  power  over  your  heart  :  I  overrated  still 
more,  perhaps,  my  power  over  my  own." 

"  Ah,  your  own  !  I  understand  now.  You  did  not  love 
me  ?" 

"  I  never  said  that  I  loved  you  in  the  sense  in  which  you  use 
the  word.  I  told  you  that  the  love  which  you  have  described 
in  your  verse,  and  which,"  she  added  falteringly,  with  height- 
ened color  and  with  hands  tightly  clasped,  "  I  have  conceived 
possible  in  my  dreams,  it  was  not  mine  to  give.  You  declared 
you  were  satisfied  with  such  affection  as  I  could  bestow. 
Hush  !  Let  me  go  on.  You  said  that  affection  would  increase, 
would  become  love,  in  proportion  as  I  knew  you  more.  It 
has  not  done  so.  Nay,  it  passed  away,  even  before,  in  this 
time  of  trial  and  grief,  I  became  aware  how  different  from  the 
love  you  professed  was  the  neglect  which  needs  no  excuse,  for 
it  did  not  pain  me." 

"  You  are  cruel,  indeed,  Mademoiselle." 

"  No,  indeed,  I  am  kind.  I  wish  you  to  feel  no  pang  at  our 
parting.  Truly  I  had  resolved,  when  the  siege  terminated, 
and  the  time  to  speak  frankly  of  our  engagement  came,  to  tell 
you  that  I  shrank  from  the  thjDught  of  a  union  between  us  ; 
and  that  it  was  for  the  happiness  of  both  that  our  promises 


THE    PARISIANS.  565 

should  be  mutually  cancelled.  The  moment  lias  come  sooner 
than  I  thought.  Even  had  I  loved  you,  Guslave,  as  deeply 
as — as  well  as  the  beings  of  Romance  love,  I  would  not  dare 
to  wed  one  who  calls  upon  mortals  to  deny  God,  demolish  His 
altars,  treat  His  worship  as  a  crime.  No  ;  I  would  sooner  die 
of  a  broken  heart,  that  I  might  the  sooner  be  one  of  those 
souls  privileged  to  pray  the  Divine  Intercessor  for  merciful 
light  on  those  beloved  and  left  dark  on  earth." 

"  Isaura  ! "  exclaimed  Gustave,  his  mobile  temperament 
impressed,  not  by  the  words  of  Isaura,  but  by  the  passionate 
earnestness  with  which  they  were  uttered,  and  by  the  exquisite 
spiritual  beauty  which  her  face  took  from  the  combined  sweet- 
ness and  fervor  of  its  devout  expression — '*  Isaura,  I  merit 
your  censure,  your  sentence  of  condemnation  ;  but  do  not  ask 
me  to  give  back  your  plighted  troth.  I  have  not  the  strength 
to  do  so.  More  than  ever,  more  than  when  first  pledged  to 
me,  I  need  the  aid,  the  companionship,  of  my  guardian  angel. 
You  were  that  to  me  once  ;  abandon  me  not  now.  In  these 
terrible  times  of  revolution,  excitable  natures  catch  madness 
from  each  other.  A  writer  in  the  heat  of  his  passion  says 
much  that  he  does  not  mean  to  be  literally  taken,  which  in 
cooler  moments  he  repents  and  retracts.  Consider,  too,  the 
pressure  of  want,  of  hunger.  It  is  the  opinions  that  you  so 
condemn  which  alone  at  this  moment  supply  bread  to  the 
writer.  But  say  you  will  yet  pardon  me  ;  yet  give  me  trial  if 
I  offend  no  more,  if  I  withdraw  my  aid  to  any  attacks  on  your 
views,  your  religion  ;  if  I  say,  '  Thy  God  shall  be  my  God,  and 
thy  people  shall  be  my  people."  " 

"  Alas  !  "  said  Isaura  softly,  "  ask  thyself  if  those  be  words 
which  I  can  believe  again.  Hush  !"  she  continued,  checking 
his  answer  with  a  more  kindling  countenance  and  more  impas- 
sioned voice.  "Are  they,  after  all,  the  words  that  man  should 
address  to  woman  ?  Is  it  on  the  strength  of  Woman  that  Man 
should  rely  ? .  Is  it  to  her  that  he  should  say  :  '  Dictate  my 
opinions  on  all  that  belongs  to  the  Mind  of  man;  change  the 
doctrines  that  I  have  thoughtfully  formed  and  honestly  advo- 
cate ;  teach  me  how  to  act  on  earth,  clear  all  my  doubts  as  to 
my  hopes  of  heaven '  ?  No,  Gustave  ;  in  this  task  man  never 
should  repose  on  woman.  Thou  art  honest  at  this  moment, 
my  poor  friend  ;  but  could  I  believe  thee  to-day,  thoti  wouldst 
laugh  to-morrow  at  what  woman  can  be  made  to  believe." 

Stung  to  the  quick  by  the  truth  of  Isaura's  accusation,  Gus- 
tave exclaimed  with  vehemence :  "All  that  thou  sayest  is  false, 
and  thou  knowest  it.  The  influence  of  woman  on  man  for 


566  THE    PARISIANS. 

good  or  for  evil  defies  reasoning.  It  does  mould  his  deeds  on 
earth  ;  it  does  either  make  or  mar  all  that  future  which  lies 
between  his  life  and  his  gravestone,  and  of  whatsoever  may  lie 
beyond  the  grave.  Give  me  up  now,  and  thou  art  responsible 
for  me,  for  all  I  do,  it  may  be  against  all  that  thou  deemest 
holy.  Keep  thy  troth  yet  awhile,  and  test  me.  If  I  come  to 
thee  showing  how  I  could  have  injured,  and  how  for  thy  dear 
sake  I  have  spared,  nay,  aided,  all  that  thou  dost  believe  and 
reverence,  then  wilt  thou  dare  to  say  :  '  Go  thy  ways  alone — 
I  forsake  thee  "  ? 

Isaura  turned  aside  her  face,  but  she  held  out  her  hand — it 
was  as  cold  as  death.  He  knew  that  she  had  so  far  yielded, 
and  his  vanity  exulted  ;  he  smiled  in  secret  triumph  as  he 
pressed  his  kiss  on  that  icy  hand,  and  was  gone. 

"  This  is  duty — it  must  be  duty,"  said  Isaura  to  herself. 
"But  where  is  the  buoyant  delight  that  belongs  to  a  duty 
achieved? — where,  oh  where?"  And  then  she  stole  with 
drooping  head  and  heavy  step  into  her  own  room,  fell  on  her 
knees,  and  prayed. 

CHAPTER  VIII. 

IN  vain  persons,  be  they  male  or  female,  there  is  a  compla- 
cent self-satisfaction  in  any  momentary  personal  success,  how- 
ever little  that  success  may  conduce  to — nay,  however  much  it 
may  militate  against — the  objects  to  which  their  vanity  itself 
devotes  its  more  permanent  desires.  A  vain  woman  may  be 

very  anxious  to  win  A ,  the  magnificent,  as  a  partner  for 

life,  and  yet  feel  a  certain  triumph  when  a   glance   of  her  eye 

has  made  an  evening's  conquest  of  the  pitiful  B ,  although 

by  that  achievement  she  incurs  the  imminent  hazard  of  losing 

A altogether.     So,  when  Gustave  Rameau  quitted  Isaura, 

his  first  feeling  was  that  of  triumph.  His  eloquence  had  sub- 
dued her  will  :  she  had  not  finally  discarded  him.  But  as  he 
wandered  abstractedly  in  the  biting  air  his  self-complacency 
was  succeeded  by  mortification  and  discontent.  He  felt  that 
he  had  committed  himself  to  promises  which  he  was  by  no 
means  prepared  to  keep.  True,  the  promises  were  vague  in 
words  ;  but  in  substance  they  were  perfectly  clear — "to  spare, 
nay,  to  aid  all  that  Isaura  esteemed  and  reverenced."  How 
was  this  possible  to  him  ?  How  could  he  suddenly  change  the 
whole  character  of  his  writings  ?  How  become  the  defender  of 
marriage  and  property,  of  church  and  religion  ?  How  pro- 
claim himself  so  utter  an  apostate  ?  If  he  did,  how  become  a 


THE    PARISIANS.  567 

leader  of  the  fresh  revolution  ?  How  escape  being  its  victim  ? 
Cease  to  write  altogether  ?  But  then  how  live  ?  His  pen  was 
his  sole  subsistence,  save  30  sous  a  day  as  a  National  Guard — 
30  sous  a  day  to  him  who,  in  order  to  be  Sybarite  in  tastes,  was 
Spartan  in  doctrine.  Nothing  better  just  at  that  moment  than 
Spartan  doctrine  :  "  Live  on  black  broth  and  fight  the  enemy." 
And  the  journalists  in  vogue  so  thrived  upon  that  patriotic  sen- 
timent, that  they  were  the  last  persons  compelled  to  drink  the 
black  broth  or  to  fight  the  enemy. 

"  Those  women  are  such  idiots  when  they  meddle  in 
politics,"  grumbled  between  his  teeth  the  enthusiastic  advocate 
of  Woman's  Rights  on  all  matters  of  love.  "And,"  he  con- 
tinued, soliloquizing,  "  it  is  not  as  if  the  girl  had  any  large  or 
decent  dot ;  it  is  not  as  if  she  said,  '  In  return  for  the  sacrifice 
of  your  popularity,  your  prospects,  your  opinions,  I  give  you 
not  only  a  devoted  heart,  but  an  excellent  table  and  a  capital 
fire  and  plenty  of  pocket-money.'  Sacre  bleu!  when  I  think  of 
that  frozen  salon,  and  possibly  the  leg  of  a  mouse  for  dinner, 
and  a  virtuous  homily  by  way  of  grace,  the  prospect  is  not 
alluring  ;  and  the  girl  herself  is  not  so  pretty  as  she  was — grown 
very  thin.  Sur  tnon  dine,  I  think  she  asks  too  much — far  more 
than  she  is  worth.  No,  no  ;  I  had  better  have  accepted  her 
dismissal.  Elle  nest  pas  digue  de  mot." 

Just  as  he  arrived  at  that  conclusion,  Gustave  Rameau  felt 
the  touch  of  a  light,  a  soft,  a  warm,  yet  a  firm  hand,  on  his 
arm.  He  turned,  and  beheld  the  face  of  the  woman  whom, 
through  so  many  dreary  weeks,  he  had  sought  to  shun — the 
face  of  Julie  Caumartin.  Julie  was  not,  as  Savarin  had  seen 
her,  looking  pinched  and  wan,  with  faded  robes,  nor,  as  when 
met  in  the  cafe  by  Lemercier,  in  the  faded  robes  of  a  theatre. 
Julie  never  looked  more  beautiful,  more  radiant,  than  she  did 
now  ;  and  there  was  a  wonderful  heartfelt  fondness  in  her 
voice  when  she  cried,  "  Man  homme  !  mon  homme  !  seul  homme 
au  nwnde  de  mon  cceur,  Gustave,  che'ri,  adore" !  I  have  found 
thee — at  last — at  last  !  "  Gustave  gazed  upon  her,  stupefied. 
Involuntarily  his  eye  glanced  from  the  freshness  of  bloom  in 
her  face,  which  the  intense  cold  of  the  atmosphere  only  seemed 
to  heighten  into  purer  health,  to  her  dress,  which  was  new 
and  handsome — black — he  did  not  know  that  it  was  mourn- 
ing— the  cloak  trimmed  with  costly  sables.  Certainly,  it  was 
no  mendicant  for  alms  who  thus  reminded  the  shivering  Adonis 
of  the  claims  of  a  pristine  Venus.  He  stammered  out  her 
name — "  Julie  !  " — and  then  he  stopped. 

"  Out,  ta  Julie?     fctit  iiigrat !  how  I  have  spught  for 


568  THE    PARISIANS. 

How  I  have  hungered  for  the  sight  of  thee  !  That  monster 
Savarin  !  he  would  not  give  me  any  news  of  thee.  That  is 
ages  ago.  But  at  least  Frederic  Lemercier,  whom  I  saw  since, 
promised  to  remind  thee  that  I  lived  still.  He  did  not  do  so, 
or  I  should  have  seen  thee — nest  ce  pas?" 

"Certainly,  certainly — only — chere  antic — you  know  that — 
that — as  I  before  announced  to  thee,  I — I — was  engaged  in 
marriage — and — and — " 

"But  are  you  married?" 

"  No,  no.    Hark  !    Take  care — is  not  that  the  hiss  of  an  obus  ?" 

"  What  then  ?  Let  it  come  !  Would  it  might  slay  us  both 
while  my  hand  is  in  thine  !  " 

"  Ah  !  "  muttered  Gustave  inwardly,  "  what  a  difference  ! 
This  is  love  !  No  preaching  here  !  Elle  est  plus  digne  de  moi 
quel'autre." 

"No,"  he  said,  aloud,  "I  am  not  married.  Marriage  is  at 
best  a  pitiful  ceremony.  But  if  you  wished  for  news  of  me, 
surely  you  must  have  heard  of  my  effect  as  an  orator  not  de- 
spised in  the  Salle  Favre.  Since,  I  have  withdrawn  from  that 
arene.  But  as  a  journalist  I  flatter  myself  that  I  have  had  a 
beau  succes" 

"  Doubtless,  doubtless,  my  Gustave,  my  Poet  !  Wherever 
thou  art,  thou  must  be  first  among  men.  But,  alas  !  it  is  my 
fault — my  misfortune.  I  have  not  been  in  the  midst  of  a 
world  that  perhaps  rings  of  thy  name." 

"Not  my  name.  Prudence  compelled  me  to  conceal  that. 
Still,  Genius  pierces  under  any  name.  You  might  have  dis- 
covered me  under  my  nom  de  plume." 

"  Pardon  me — I  was  alway  bete.  But,  oh  !  for  so  many 
weeks  I  was  so  poor,  so  destitute.  I  could  go  nowhere, 
except — don't  be  ashamed  of  me — except — " 

"Yes?     Goon." 

"  Except  where  I  could  get  some  money.  At  first  to  dance — 
you  remember  my  bolero.  Then  I  got  a  better  engagement. 
Do  you  not  remember  that  you  taught  me  to  recite  verses  ? 
Had  it  been  for  myself  alone,  I  might  have  been  contented  to 
starve.  Without  thee  what  is  life?  But  thou  wilt  recollect 
Madeleine,  the  old  bonne  who  lived  with  me.  Well,  she  had 
attended  and  cherished  me  since  I  was  so  high — lived  with  my 
mother.  Mother  !  no  ;  it  seems  that  Madame-  Surville  was 
not  my  mother  after  all.  But,  of  course,  I  could  not  let  my 
old  Madeleine  starve  ;  and  therefore,  with  a  heart  heavy  as 
lead,  I  danced  and  declaimed.  My  heart  was  not  so  heavy 
when  I  recited  thy  songs," 


THE   PARISIANS.  569 

"My  songs  !     Pauvre  ange!"  exclaimed  the  Poet. 

"And  then,  too,  I  thought,  'Ah  !  this  dreadful  siege  !  He, 
too,  may  be  poor — he  may  know  want  and  hunger'  ;  and  so 
all  I  could  save  from  Madeleine  I  put  into  a  box  for  thee,  in 
case  thou  shouldst  come  back  to  me  some  day.  Mon  homme, 
how  could  I  go  to  the  Salle  Favre  ?  How  could  I  read  jour- 
nals, Gustave  ?  But  thou  art  not  married,  Gustave  ?  Parole 
d'/wnnfur  ?  " 

"'Parole  d'honneiir  !     What  does  that  matter?" 

"Everything  !  Ah  !  I  am  not  so  me"chante,  so  mauvaise  tele, 
as  I  was  some  months  ago.  If  thou  wert  married',  I  should 
say,  '  Blessed  and  sacred  be  thy  wife  !  Forget  me.'  But  as  it 
is,  one  word  more.  Dost  thou  love  the  young  lady,  whoever 
she  be.  Or  does  she  love  thee  so  well  .that  it  would  be  sin  in 
thee  to  talk  trifles  to  Julie  ?  Speak  as  honestly  as  if  thou  wert 
not  a  poet." 

"  Honestly,  she  never  said  she  loved  me.  I  never  thought 
she  did.  But,  you  see,  I  was  very  ill,  and  my  parents  and 
friends  and  my  physician  said  that  it  was  right  for  me  to 
arrange  my  life,  and  marry,  and  so  forth.  And  the  girl  had 
money,  and  was  a  good  match.  In  short,  the  thing  was  set- 
tled. But  oh,  Julie  !  She  never  learned  my  songs  by  heart. 
She  did  not  love  as  thou  didst,  and  still  dost.  And — ah  ! 
well — now  that  we  meet  again — now  that  I  look  in  thy  face — 
now  that  I  hear  thy  voice —  No,  I  do  not  love  her  as  I  loved, 
and  might  yet  love,  thee.  But — but — " 

"  Well,  but  ?  Oh,  I  guess.  Thou  seest  me  well  dressed,  no 
longer  dancing  and  declaiming  at  cafes  ;  and  thou  thinkest 
that  Julie  has  disgraced  herself?  She  is  unfaithful?" 

Gustave  had  not  anticipated  that  frankness,  nor  was  the 
idea  which  it  expressed  uppermost  in  his  mind  when  he  said, 
"but,  but — "  There  were  many  buts,  all  very  confused,  strug- 
gling through  his  mind  as  he  spoke.  However,  he  answered 
as  a  Parisian  sceptic,  not  ill-bred,  naturally  would  answer : 

"My  dear  friend,  my  dear  child"  (the  Parisian  is  very  fond 
of  the  word  child  or  enfant  in  addressing  a  woman),  "I  have 
never  seen  thee  so  beautiful  as  thou  art  now  ;  and  when  ihou 
tellest  me  that  thou  art  no  longer  poor,  and  the  proof  of  what 
thou  sayest  is  visible  in  the  furs — which,  alas  !  I  cannot  give 
thee — what  am  I  to  think  ?" 

"  Oh,  mon  homme,  man  homme  !  thou  art  very  spirituel,  and  that 
is  why  I  loved  thee.  I  am  very  bete,  and  that  is  excuse  enough 
for  thee  if  thou  couldst  not  love  me.  But  canst  thou  look  me 
in  the  face  and  not  know  that  my  eyes  could  not  meet  thine 


570  THE    PARISIANS, 

as  they  do,  if  I  had  been  faithless  to  thee  even  in  a  thought, 
when  I  so  boldly  touched  thine  arm  ?  Viens  chez  mot,  come 
and  let  me  explain  all.  Only — only  let  me  repeat,  if  another 
has  rights  over  thee  which  forbid  thee  to  come,  say  so  kindly, 
and  I  will  never  trouble  thee  again." 

Gustave  had  been  hitherto  walking  slowly  by  the  side  of 
Julie,  amidst  the  distant  boom  of  the  besiegers'  cannon,  while 
the  short  day  began  to  close  ;  and  along  the  dreary  boulevards 
sauntered  idlers  turning  to  look  at  the  young,  beautiful,  well- 
dressed  woman  who  seemed  in  such  contrast  to  the  capital 
whose  former  luxuries  the  "Ondine"  of  imperial  Paris  repre- 
sented. He  now  offered  his  arm  to  Julie  ;  and,  quickening  his 
pace,  said  :  "  There  is  no  reason  why  I  should  refuse  to  attend 
thee  home,  and  listen  to  the  explanations  thou  dost  generously 
condescend  to  volunteer." 


CHAPTER  IX. 

"An,  indeed  !  what  a  difference  !  what  a  difference  !  "  said 
Gustave  to  himself  when  he  entered  Julie's  apartment.  In  her 
palmier  days,  when  he  had  first  made  her  acquaintance,  the 
apartment  no  doubt  had  been  infinitely  more  splendid,  more 
abundant  in  silks  and  fringes  and  flowers  and  nicknacks  ;  but 
.  never  had  it  seemed  so  cheery  and  comfortable  and  home-like 
as  now.  What  a  contrast  to  Isaura's  dismantled,  chilly  salon  ! 
She  drew  him  towards  the  hearth,  on  which,  blazing  though  it 
was,  she  piled  fresh  billets,  seated  him  in  the  easiest  of  easy- 
chairs,  knelt  beside  him,  and  chafed  his  numbed  hands  in 
hers  ;  and  as  her  bright  eyes  fixed  tenderly  on  his,  she  looked 
so  young  and  so  innocent !  You  would  not  then  have  called 
her  the  "Ondine  of  Paris." 

But  when,  a  little  after,  revived  by  the  genial  warmth  and 
moved  by  the  charm  of  her  beauty,  Gustave  passed  his  arm 
round  her  neck  and  sought  to  draw  her  on  his  lap,  she  slid 
from  his  embrace,  shaking  her  head  gently,  and  seated  herself, 
with  a  pretty  air  of  ceremonious  decorum,  at  a  little  distance. 

Gustave  looked  at  her  amazed. 

"  Causons"  said  she  gravely  :  "  thou  wouldst  know  why  I  am 
so  well  dressed,  so  comfortably  lodged,  and  I  am  longing  to 
explain  to  thee  all.  Some  days  ago  I  had  just  finished  my  per- 
formance at  the  Cafe" ,  and  was  putting  on  my  shawl,  when 

a  tall  Monsieur,  fort  bcl  homme,  with  the  air  of  a  grand 
seigneur,  entered  the  cafe,  and  approaching  me  politely,  said, 


THE   PARISIANS.  571 

'I  think  I  have  the  honor  to  address  Mademoiselle  Julie  Cau- 
martin?'  'That  is  my  name,'  I  said,  surprised  ;  and,  looking 
at  him  more  intently,  I  recognized  his  face.  He  had  come 
into  the  cafe  a  few  days  before  with  thine  old  acquaintance 
Frederic  Lemercier,  and  stood  by  when  1  asked  Frederic  to 
give  me  news  of  thee.  'Mademoiselle,' he  continued,  with  a 
serious,  melancholy  smile,  'I  shall  startle  you  when  I  say  that 
I  am  appointed  to  act  as  your  guardian  by  the  last  request  of 
your  mother.'  'Of  Madame  Surville?'  'Madame  Surville 
adopted  you,  but  was  not  your  mother.  We  cannot  talk  at 
ease  here.  Allow  me  to  request  that  you  will  accompany  me 

to  Monsieur  N ,  the  avout.  It  is  not  very  far  from  this  : 

and  by  the  way  I  will  tell  you  some  news  that  may  sadden, 
and  some  news  that  may  rejoice.' 

"  There  was  an  earnestness  in  the  voice  and  look  of  this 
Monsieur  that  impressed  me.  He  did  not  offer  me  his  arm  ; 
but  I  walked  by  his  side  in  the  direction  he  chose.  As  we 
walked  he  told  me  in  very  few  words  that  my  mother  had  been 
separated  from  her  husband,  and  for  certain  family  reasons 
had  found  it  so  difficult  to  rear  and  provide  for  me  herself, 
that  she  had  accepted  the  offer  of  Madame  Surville  to  adopt 
me  as  her  own  child.  While  he  spoke,  there  came  dimly  back 
to  me  the  remembrance  of  a  lady  who  had  taken  me  from  my 
first  home,  when  I  had  been,  as  I  understood,  at  nurse,  and 
left  me  with  poor  dear  Madame  Surville,  saying,  'This  is 
henceforth  your  mamma.'  I  never  again  saw  that  lady.  It 
seems  that  many  years  afterwards  my  true  mother  desired  to 
regain  me.  Madame  Surville  was  then  dead.  She  failed  to 
trace  me  out,  owing,  alas  !  to  my  own  faults  and  change  of  name. 
She  then  entered  a  nunnery,  but  before  doing  so,  assigned  a 
sum  of  100,000  francs  to  this  gentleman,  who  was  distantly 
connected  with  her,  with  full  power  to  him  to  take  it  to  him- 
self, or  give  it  to  my  use  should  he  discover  me,  at  his  discre- 
tion. '  I  ask  you,'  continued  the  Monsieur,  'to  go  with  me  to 

Mons.  N 's,  because  the  sum  is  still  in  his  hands.  He  will 

confirm  my  statement.  All  that  I  have  now  to  say  is  this  :  If 
you  accept  my  guardianship,  if  you  obey  implicitly  my  advice, 
I  shall  consider  the  interest  of  this  sum,  which  has  accumu- 
lated since  deposited  with  M.  N due  to  you  ;  and  the  capital 

will  be  your  dot  on  marriage,  if  the  marriage  be  with  my  con- 
sent.' " 

Gustave  had  listened  very  attentively,  and  without  interrup- 
tion, until  now  ;  when  he  looked  up,  and  said  with  his  custom- 
ary sneer  :  "Did  your  Monsieur,/^-/^///*?;/////^,  you  say, inform 


572  THE   PARISIANS. 

you  of  the  value  of  the  advice,  rather  of  the  commands,  you 
were  implicitly  to  obey  ?" 

"  Yes,"  answered  Julie,  "  not  then,  but  later.  Let  me  go  on. 

We  arrived  at  M.  N 's,  an  elderly,  grave  man.  He  said 

that  all  he  knew  was  that  he  held  the  money  in  trust  for  the 
Monsieur  with  me,  to  be  given  to  him,  with  the  accumulations 
of  interest,  on  the  death  of  the  lady  who  had  deposited  it.  If 
that  Monsieur  had  instructions  how  to  dispose  of  the  money,  they 
were  not  known  to  him.  All  he  had  to  do  was  to  transfer  it 
absolutely  to  him  on  the  proper  certificate  of  the  lady's  death. 
So  you  see,  Gustave,  that  the  Monsieur  could  have  kept  all  from 
me  if  he  had  liked." 

"Your  Monsieur  is  very  generous.  Perhaps  you  will  now 
tell  me  his  name." 

"  No  ;  he  forbids  me  to  do  it  yet." 

"  And  he  took  this  apartment  for  you,  and  gave  you  the 
money  to  buy  that  smart  dress  and  these  furs.  Bah  !  man 
enfant,  why  try  to  deceive  me?  Do  I  not  know  my  Paris?  A 
fort  bcl  homme  does  not  make  himself  guardian  to  a fort  belle fille 
so  young  and  fair  as  Mademoiselle  Julie  Caumartin  without 
certain  considerations  which  shall  be  nameless,  like  himself." 

Julie's  eyes  flashed.  "  Ah,  Gustave  !  ah,  Monsieur!"  she 
said  half  angrily,  half  plaintively,  "  I  see  that  my  guardian 
knew  you  better  than  I  did.  Never  mind  ;  I  will  not  reproach. 
Thou  hast  the  right  to  despise  me." 

"  Pardon  !  I  did  not  mean  to  offend  thee,"  said  Gustave, 
somewhat  disconcerted.  "  But  own  that  thy  story  is  strange  ; 
and  this  guardian,  who  knows  me  better  than  thou — does  he 
know  me  at  all?  Didst  thou  speak  to  him  of  me?" 

"  How  could  I  help  it  ?  He  says  that  this  terrible  war,  in 
which  he  takes  an  active  part,  makes  his  life  uncertain  from 
day  to  day.  He  wished  to  complete  the  trust  bequeathed  to  him 
by  seeing  me  safe  in  the  love  of  some  worthy  man  who" — she 
paused  for  a  moment  with  an  expression  of  compressed  anguish, 
and  then  hurried  on — "  who  would  recognize  what  was  good 
in  roe — would  never  reproach  me  for — for — the  past.  1  then 
said  that  my  heart  was  thine  :  I  could  never  marry  any  one 
but  thee." 

"Marry  me,"  faltered  Gustave — "marry  !  " 

"And,"  continued  the  girl,  not  heeding  his  interruption, 
"  he  said  thou  wert  not  the  husband  he  would  choose  for  me  : 
that  thou  wert  not — no,  I  cannot  wound  thee  by  repeating  what 
he  said  unkindly,  unjustly.  He  bade  me  think  of  thee  no  more. 
I  said  again,  that  is  impossible." 


THE    PARISIANS.  573 

"  But,"  resumed  Rameau,  with  an  affected  laugh,  "  why 
think  of  anything  so  formidable  as  marriage  ?  Thou  lovest  me, 
and — "  He  approached  again,  seeking  to  embrace  her.  She 
recoiled.  "No,  Gustave,  no.  I  have  sworn — sworn  solemnly 
by  the  memory  of  my  lost  mother — that  I  will  never  sin  again. 
1  will  never  be  to  thee  other  than  thy  friend — or  thy  wife." 

Before  Gustave  could  reply  to  these  words,  which  took  him 
wholly  by  surprise,  there  was  a  ring  at  the  outer  door,  and  the 
old  bonne  ushered  in  Victor  de  Mauleon.  He  halted  at  the 
threshold,  and  his  brow  contracted. 

"  So  you  have  already  broken  faith  with  me,  Mademoiselle  ?" 

"  No,  Monsieur,  I  have  not  broken  faith,"  cried  Julie, 
passionately.  "I  told  you  that  I  would  not  seek  to  find  out 
Monsieur  Rameau.  I  did  not  seek,  but  I  met  him  unexpect- 
edly. I  owed  to  him  an  explanation.  I  invited  him  here  to 
give  that  explanation.  Without  it,  what  would  he  have  thought 
me  ?  Now  he  may  go,  and  I  will  never  admit  him  again  with- 
out your  sanction." 

The  Vicomte  turned  his  stern  look  upon  Gustave,  who, 
though,  as  we  know,  not  wanting  in  personal  courage,  felt  cowed 
by  his  false  position  ;  and  his  eye  fell,  quailed  before  De  Mati- 
Kon's  gaze. 

"  Leave  us  for  a  few  minutes  alone,  Mademoiselle,"  said  the 
Tvicomte.  "  Nay,  Julie,"  he  added,  in  softened  tones,  "fear 
nothing.  I,  too,  owe  explanation — friendly  explanation — to  M. 
Rameau." 

With  his  habitual  courtesy  towards  women,  he  extended  his 
hand  to  Julie,  and  led  her  from  the  room.  Then,  closing  the 
door,  he  seated  himself,  and  made  a  sign  to  Gustave  to  do  the 
same. 

"Monsieur,"  said  De  Mauleon,  "excuse  me  if  I  detain  you. 
A  very  few  words  will  suffice  for  our  present  interview.  I  take 
it  for  granted  that  Mademoiselle  has  told  you  that  she  is  no 
child  of  Madame  Surville's  :  that  her  own  mother  bequeathed 
her  to  my  protection  and  guardianship  with  a  modest  fortune 
which  is  at  my  disposal  to  give  or  withhold.  The  little  I  have 
seen  already  of  Mademoiselle  impresses  me  with  sincere  interest 
in  her  fate.  I  look  with  compassion  on  what  she  may  have  been 
in  the  past ;  I  anticipate  with  hope  what  she  may  be  in  the 
future.  I  do  not  ask  you  to  see  her  in  either  with  my  eyes.  I 
say  frankly  that  it  is  my  intention,  and  I  may  add  my  resolve, 
that  the  ward  thus  left  to  my  charge  shall  be  henceforth  safe 
from  the  temptations  that  have  seduced  her  poverty,  her  inex- 
perience, her  vanity,  if  you  will,  but  have  not  yet  corrupted  her 


574  THE    PARISIANS. 

heart.  Bref,  I  must  request  you  to  give  me  your  word  of  honor 
that  you  will  hold  no  further  communication  with  her.  I  can 
allow  no  sinister  influence  to  stand  between  her  fate  and 
honor." 

"You  speak  well  and  nobly,  M.  le  Vicomte,"  said  Rameau, 
"and  I  give  the  promise  you  exact."  He  added  feelingly  : 
"  It  is  true  her  heart  has  never  been  corrupted.  That  is  good, 
affectionate,  unselfish  as  a  child's.  J'aiThonneur  de  vous  saluer, 
M.  le  Vicomte." 

He  bowed  with  a  dignity  unusual  to  him,  and  tears  were  in 
his  eyes  as  he  passed  by  De  Mauleon  and  gained  the  anteroom. 
There  a  side-door  suddenly  opened,  and  Julie's  face,  anxious, 
eager,  looked  forth. 

Gustave  paused  :  "  Adieu,  Mademoiselle  !  Though  we  may 
never  meet  again — though  our  fates  divide  us — believe  me  that  I 
shall  ever  cherish  your  memory — and — " 

The  girl  interrupted  him,  impulsively  seizing  his  arm,  and 
looking  him  in  the  face  with  a  wild,  fixed  stare. 

"  Hush  !  dost  thou  mean  to  say  that  we  are  parted — parted 
forever? " 

"  Alas  !  "  said  Gustave,  "  what  option  is  before  us  ?  Your 
guardian  rightly  forbids  my  visits  ;  and  even  were  I  free  to  offer 
you  my  hand,  you  yourself  say  that  I  am  not  a  suitor  he  would 
approve." 

Julie  turned  her  eyes  towards  De  Mauleon,  who,  following 
Gustave  into  the  anteroom,  stood  silent  and  impassive,  leaning 
against  the  wall. 

He  now  understood  and  replied  to  the  pathetic  appeal  in  the 
girl's  eyes. 

"  My  young  ward,"  he  said,  "  M.  Rameau  expresses  himself 
with  propriety  and  truth.  Suffer  him  to  depart,  He  belongs 
to  the  former  life  ;  reconcile  yourself  to  the  new." 

He  advanced  to  take  her  hand,  making  a  sign  to  Gustave  to 
depart.  But  as  he  approached  Julie,  she  uttered  a  weak, 
piteous  wail,  and  fell  at  his  feet  senseless.  De  Mauleon  raised 
and  carried  her  into  her  room,  where  he  left  her  to  the  care  of 
the  old  bonne.  On  re-entering  the  anteroom,  he  found  Gustave 
still  lingering  by  the  outer  door. 

''  You  Avill  pardon  me,  Monsieur,"  he  said  to  the  Vicomte, 
"  but  in  fact  I  feel  so  uneasy,  so  unhappy.  Has  she —  ?  You 
see,  you  see  that  there  is  danger  to  her  health,  perhaps  to  her 
reason,  in  so  abrupt  a  separation,  so  cruel  a  rupture  between 
us.  Let  me  call  again,  or  I  may  not  have  strength  to  keep  my 
promise." 


THE    PARISIANS.  575 

De  Maule"on  remained  a  few  minutes  musing.     Then  he  said 
in  a  whisper :  "  Come  back  into  the  salon.     Let  us  talk  frankly." 


CHAPTER  X. 

"  M.  RAMEAU,"  said  De  Matileon,  when  the  two  men  had 
reseated  themselves  in  the  salon,  "  I  will  honestly  say  that  my 
desire  is  to  rid  myself  as  soon  as  I  can  of  the  trust  of  guardian 
to  this  young  lady.  Playing  as  I  do  with  fortune,  my  only 
stake  against  her  favors  is  my  life.  I  feel  as  if  it  were  my  duty 
to  see  that  Mademoiselle  is  not  left  alone  and  friendless  in  the 
world  at  my  decease.  I  have  in  my  mind  for  her  a  husband 
that  I  think  in  every  way  suitable  :  a  handsome  and  brave 
young  fellow  in  my  battalion,  of  respectable  birth,  without  any 
living  relations  to  consult  as  to  his  choice.  I  have  reason  to 
believe  that  if  Julie  married  him,  she  need  never  fear  a 
reproach  as  to  her  antecedents.  Her  dot  would  suffice  to 
enable  him  to  realize  his  own  wish  of  a  country  town  in  Nor- 
mandy. And  in  that  station,  Paris  and  its  temptations  would 
soon  pass  from  the  poor  child's  thoughts,  as  an  evil  dream. 
But  I  cannot  dispose  of  her  hand  without  her  own  consent  ; 
and  if  she  is  to  be  reasoned  out  of  her  fancy  for  you,  I  have  no 
time  to  devote  to  the  task.  I  come  to  the  point.  You  are 
not  the  man  I  would  choose  for  her  husband.  But,  evidently, 
you  are  the  man  she  would  choose.  Are  you  disposed  to  marry 
her  ?  You  hesitate,  very  naturally  ;  I  have  no  right  to  demand 
an  immediate  answer  to  a  question  so  serious.  Perhaps  you 
will  think  over  it,  and  let  me  know  in  a  day  or  two  ?  I  take  it 
for  granted  that  if  you  were,  as  I  heard,  engaged  before  the  siege 
to  marry  the  Signora  Cicogna,  that  engagement  is  annulled?  " 

"  Why  take  it  for  granted  ?  "  asked  Gustave,  perplexed. 

"  Simply  because  I  find  you  here.  Nay,  spare  explanations 
and  excuses.  I  quite  understand  that  you  were  invited  to 
come.  But  a  man  solemnly  betrothed  to  a  demoiselle  like  the 
Signora  Cicogna,  in  a  time  of  such  dire  calamity  and  peril, 
could  scarcely  allow  himself  to  be  tempted  to  accept  the  invi- 
tation of  one  so  beautiful,  and  so  warmly  attached  to  him,  as  is 
Mademoiselle  Julie  ;  and  on  witnessing  the  passionate  strength 
of  that  attachment,  say  that  he  cannot  keep  a  promise  not  to 
repeat  his  visits.  But  if  I  mistake,  and  you  are  still  betrothed 
to  the  Signorina,  of  course  all  discussion  is  at  an  end/' 

Gustave  hung  his  head  in  some  shame,  and  in  much  be- 
wildered doubt. 


576  THE    PARISIANS. 

The  practiced  observer  of  men's  characters,  and  of  shifting 
phases  of  mind,  glanced  at  the  poor  poet's,  perturbed  counte- 
nance with  a  half-smile  of  disdain. 

"  It  is  for  you  to  judge  how  far  the  very  love  to  you  so 
ingenuously  evinced  by  my  ward — how  far  the  reasons  against 
marriage  with  one  whose  antecedents  expose  her  to  reproach — 
should  influence  one  of  your  advanced  opinions  upon  social 
ties.  Such  reasons  do  not  appear  to  have  with  artists  the 
same  weight  they  have  with  the  bourgeoisie.  I  have  but  to  add 
that  the  husband  of  Julie  will  receive  with  her  hand  a  dot  of 
nearly  120,000  francs ;  and  I  have  reason  to  believe  that  that 
fortune  will  be  increased — how  much,  I  cannot  guess — when 
the  cessation  of  the  siege  will  allow  communication  with 
England.  One  word  more.  I  should  wish  to  rank  the  hus- 
band of  my  ward  in  the  number  of  my  friends.  If  he  did  not 
oppose  the  political  opinions  with  which  I  identify  my  own 
career,  I  should  be  pleased  to  make  any  rise  in  the  world 
achieved  by  me  assist  to  the  raising  of  himself.  But  my  opin- 
ions, as  during  the  time  we  were  brought  together  you  were 
made  aware,  are  those  of  a  practical  man  of  the  world,  and 
have  nothing  in  common  with  Communists,  Socialists,  Inter- 
nationalists, or  whatever  sect  would  place  the  aged  societies 
of  Europe  in  Medea's  caldron  of  youth.  At  a  moment  like  the 
present,  fanatics  and  dreamers  so  abound,  that  the  number  of 
such  sinners  will  necessitate  a  general  amnesty  when  order  is 
restored.  What  a  poet  so  young  as  you  may  have  written  or 
said  at  such  a  time  will  be  readily  forgotten  and  forgiven  a 
year  or  two  hence,  provided  he  does  not  put  his  notions  into 
violent  action.  But  if  you  choose  to  persevere  in  the  views 
you  now  advocate,  so  be  it.  They  will  not  make  poor  Julie 
less  a  believer  in  your  wisdom  and  genius.  Only  they  will 
separate  you  from  me,  and  a  day  may  come  when  I  should 
have  the  painful  duty  of  ordering  you  to  be  shot — Dii  mcliora. 
Think  over  all  I  have  thus  frankly  said.  Give  me  your  answer 
within  forty-eight  hours  ;  and  meanwhile  hold  no  communica- 
tion with  my  ward.  I  have  the  honor  to  wish  you  good-day." 


CHAPTER  XI. 

THE  short,  grim  day  was  closing  when  Gustave,  quitting  Julie's 
apartment,  again  found  himself  in  the  streets.  His  thoughts 
were  troubled  and  confused.  He  was  the  more  affected  by 
Julie's  impassioned  love  for  him,  by  the  contrast  with  Isaura's 


THE    PARISIANS.  577 

words  and  manner  in  their  recent  interview.  His  own  ancient 
fancy  for  the  "  Ondine  of  Paris,"  became  revived  by  the  diffi- 
culties between  their  ancient  intercourse  which  her  unexpected 
scruples  and  De  Mauleon's  guardianship  interposed.  A  witty 
writer  thus  defines  une  passion,  "  un  caprice  enflammt  par  des 
obstacles."  In  the  ordinary  times  of  peace,  Gustave,  handsome, 
aspiring  to  reputable  position  in  \\\o.beau  monde,  would  not  have 
admitted  any  considerations  to  compromise  his  station  by 
marriage  with  a  figurante.  But  now  the  wild  political  doc- 
trines he  had  embraced  separated  his  ambition  from  that  beau 
monde,  and  combined  it  with  ascendency  over  the  revolution- 
ists of  the  populace — a  direction  which  he  must  abandon  if  he 
continued  his  suit  to  Isaura.  Then,  too,  the  immediate  posses- 
sion of  Julie's  dot  was  not  without  temptation  to  a  man  who 
was  so  fond  of  his  personal  comforts,  and  who  did  not  see 
where  to  turn  for  a  dinner,  if,  obedient  to  Isaura's  "  preju- 
dices," he  abandoned  his  profits  as  a  writer  in  the  revolutionary 
press.  The  inducements  for  withdrawal  from  the  cause  he  had 
espoused,  held  out  to  him  with  so  haughty  a  coldness  by  De 
Mauleon,  were  not  wholly  without  force,  though  they  irritated 
his  self-esteem.  He  was  dimly  aware  of  the  Vicomte's  mascu- 
line talents  for  public  lite  ;  and  the  high  reputation  he  had 
already  acquired  among  military  authorities,  and  even  among 
experienced  and  thoughtful  civilians,  had  weight  upon  Gustave's 
impressionable  temperament.  But  though  De  Mauleon's  im- 
plied advice  coincided  in  much  with  the  tacit  compact  he  had 
made  with  Isaura,  it  alienated  him  more  from  Isaura  herself, 
for  Isaura  did  not  bring  to  him  the  fortune  which  would 
enable  him  to  suspend  his  lucubrations,  watch  the  turn  of 
events,  and  live  at  ease  in  the  meanwhile  ;  and  the  dot  to  be 
received  with  De  Mauleon's  ward  had  these  advantages. 

While  thus  meditating,  Gustave  turned  into  one  of  the 
cantines  still  open,  to  brighten  his  intellect  with  a  petit  vet  re, 
and  there  he  found  the  two  colleagues  in  the  extinct  Council 
of  Ten,  Paul  Grimm  and  Edgar  Ferrier.  With  the  last  of 
these  revolutionists  Gustave  had  become  intimately  //"/.  They 
wrote  in  the  same  journal,  and  he  willingly  accepted  a  distrac- 
tion from  his  self-conflict  which  Edgar  offered  him  in  a  dinner 
at  the  Cafe*  Riche,  which  still  offered  its  hospitalities  at  no 
exorbitant  price.  At  this  repast,  as  the  drink  circulated, 
Gustave  waxed  confidential.  He  longed,  poor  youth,  for  an 
adviser.  Could  he  marry  a  girl  who  had  been  a  ballet-dancer, 
and  who  had  come  into  an  unexpected  heritage  ?  "  Es  tu 
fou  d'en  doufer?"  cried  Edgar.  "What  a  sublime  occasion  to 


578  THE    PARISIANS.    1 

manifest  thy  scorn  of  the  miserable  banalitis  of  the  bourgeoisie) 
It  will  but  increase  thy  moral  power  over  the  people.  And 
then  think  of  the  money.  What  an  aid  to  the  cause  !  What  a 
capital  for  the  launch — journal  all  thine  own  !  Besides  when 
our  principles  triumph — as  triumph  they  must — what  would  be 
marriage  but  a  brief  and  futile  ceremony,  to  be  broken  the 
moment  thou  hast  cause  to  complain  of  th^  wife  or  chafe  at 
the  bond  ?  Only  get  the  dot  into  thine  own  hands.  L'amour 
passe — reste  la  cassette." 

Though  there  was  enough  of  good  in  the  son  of  Madame 
Rameau  to  revolt  at  the  precise  words  in  which  the  counsel 
was  given,  still,  as  the  fumes  of  the  punch  yet  more  addled  his 
brains,  the  counsel  itself  was  acceptable  ;  and  in  that  sort  of 
maddened  fury  which  intoxication  produces  in  some  excitable 
temperaments,  as  Gustave  reeled  home  that  night  leaning  on 
the  arm  of  stouter  Edgar  Ferrier,  he  insisted  on  going  out  of 
his  way  to  pass  the  house  in  which  Isaura  lived,  and,  pausing 
under  her  window,  gasped  out  some  verses  of  a  wild  song,  then 
much  in  vogue  among  the  votaries  of  Felix  Pyat,  in  which 
everything  that  existent  society  deems  sacred  was  reviled  in 
the  grossest  ribaldry.  Happily  Isaura's  ear  heard  it  not.  The 
girl  was  kneeling  by  her  bedside  absorbed  in  prayer. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

THREE  days  after  the  evening  thus  spent  by  Gustave  Rameau, 
Isaura  was  startled  by  a  visit  from  M.  de  Mauleon.  She  had 
not  seen  him  since  the  commencement  of  the  siege,  and 
she  did  not  recognize  him  at  first  glance  in  his  military 
uniform. 

"  I  trust  you  will  pardon  my  intrusion,  Mademoiselle,"  he 
said,  in  the  low,  sweet  voice  habitual  to  him  in  his  gentler 
moods,  "  but  I  thought  it  became  me  to  announce  to  you  the 
decease  of  one  who,  I  fear,  did  not  discharge  with  much 
kindness  the  duties  her  connection  with  you  imposed. 
Your  father's  second  wife,  afterwards  Madame  Selby,  is  no 
more.  She  died  some  days  since  in  a  convent  to  which  she 
had  retired." 

Isaura  had  no  cause  to  mourn  the  dead,  but  she  felt  a  shock 
in  the  suddenness  of  this  information  ;  and  in  that  sweet  spirit 
of  womanly  compassion  which  entered  so  largely  into  her 
character,  and  made  a  part  of  her  genius  itself,  she  murmured 
tearfully,  "  The  poor  Signora  !  Why  could  I  not  have  been 


THE   PARISIANS.  579 

with  her  in  illness  ?  She  might  then  have  learned  to  love  me. 
And  she  died  in  a  convent,  you  say?  Ah,  her  religion  was 
then  sincere  !  "Her  end  was  peaceful  ?" 

"  Let  us  not  doubt  that,  Mademoiselle.  Certainly  she  lived 
to  regret  any  former  errors,  and  her  last  thought  was  directed 
towards  such  atonement  as  might  be  in  her  power.  And  it  is 
that  desire  of  atonement  which  now  strangely  mixes  me  up, 
Mademoiselle,  in  your  destinies.  In  that  desire  for  atonement, 
she  left  to  my  charge,  as  a  kinsman,  distant  indeed,  but  still, 
perhaps,  the  nearest  with  whom  she  was  personally  acquainted — 
a  young  ward.  In  accepting  that  trust,  I  find  myself  strangely 
compelled  to  hazard  the  risk  of  offending  you." 

"  Offending  me  ?     How  ?     Pray  speak  openly." 

"  In  so  doing,  I  must  utter  the  name  of  Gustave  Rameau." 

Isaura  turned  pale  and  recoiled,  but  she  did  not  speak. 

"  Did  he  inform  me  rightly  that,  in  the  last  interview  with 
him  three  days  ago,  you  expressed  a  strong  desire  that  the 
engagement  between  him  and  yourself  should  cease  ;  and  that 
yoii  only,  and  with  reluctance,  suspended  your  rejection  of  the 
suit  he  had  pressed  on  you,  in  consequence  of  his  entreaties, 
and  of  certain  assurances  as  to  the  changed  direction  of  the 
talents  of  which  we  will  assume  that  he  is  possessed?" 

"  Well,  well,  Monsieur,"  exclaimed  Isaura,  her  whole  face 
brightening  ;  "  and  you  come  on  the  part  of  Gustave  Rameau 
to  say  that  on  reflection  he  does  not  hold  rne  to  our  engage- 
ment— that  in  honor  and  in  conscience  I  am  free  ?  " 

"  I  see,"  answered  De  Mauleon,  smiling,  "  that  I  am  par- 
doned already.  It  would  not  pain  you  if  such  were  my  instruc- 
tions in  the  embassy  I  undertake  ?  " 

"  Pain  me  ?     No.     But—" 

"But  what?" 

"  Must  he  persist  in  a  course  which  will  break  his  mother's 
heart,  and  make  his  father  deplore  the  hour  that  he  was  born  ? 
Have  you  influence  over  him,  M.  de  Mauleon  ?  If  so,  will  you 
not  exert  it  for  his  good  ? " 

"You  interest  yourself  still  in  his  fate,  Mademoiselle  ?" 

"  How  can  I  do  otherwise  ?  Did  I  not  consent  to  share  it 
when  my  heart  shrank  from  the  thought  of  our  union?  And 
now  when,  if  I  understand  you  rightly,  I  am  free,  I  cannot  but 
think  of  what  was  best  in  him." 

"Alas  !  Mademoiselle,  he  is  but  one  of  many — a  spoilt  child 
of  that  Circe,  imperial  Paris.  Everywhere  1  look  around,  I 
see  but  corruption.  It  was  hidden  by  the  halo  which  corrup- 
tion itself  engenders.  The  halo  is  gone,  the  corruption  is  visi- 


580  THE    PARISIANS. 

ble.  Where  is  the  old  French  manhood  ?  Banished  from  the 
heart,  it  conies  out  only  at  the  tongue.  Were  our  deeds  like 
our  words,  Prussia  would  beg  on  her  knee  to  be  a  province  of 
France.  Gustave  is  the  fit  poet  for  this  generation.  Vanity — 
desire  to  be  known  for  something,  no  matter  what,  no  matter 
by  whom — that  is  the  Parisian's  leading  motive  power; 
orator,  soldier,  poet,  all  alike.  Utterers  of  fine  phrases ; 
despising  knowledge,  and  toil,  and  discipline  ;  railing  against 
the  Germans  as  barbarians,  against  their  generals  as  traitors  ; 
against  God  for  not  taking  their  part.  What  can  be  done  to 
weld  this  mass  of  hollow  bubbles  into  the  solid  form  of  a 
nation — the  nation  it  affects  to  be?  What  generation  can  be 
born  out  of  the  unmanly  race,  inebriate  with  brag  and  absinthe  ? 
Forgive  me  this  tirade  ;  I  have  been  reviewing  the  battalion  I 
command.  As  for  Gustave  Rameau — if  we  survive  the  siege, 
and  see  once  more  a  government  that  can  enforce  order,  and 
a  public  that  will  refuse  renown  for  balderdash,  I  should  not 
be  surprised  if  Gustave  Rameau  were  among  the  prettiest  imi- 
tators of  Lamartine's  early  '  Meditations.'  Had  he  been  born 
under  Louis  XIV.,  how  loyal  he  would  have  been  !  What 
sacred  tragedies  in  the  style  of  '  Athalie  '  he  would  have  writ- 
ten, in  the  hope  of  an  audience  at  Versailles  !  But  I  detain 
you  from  the  letter  I  was  charged  to  deliver  to  you.  I  have 
done  so  purposely,  that  I  might  convince  myself  that  you  wel- 
come that  release  which  your  too  delicate  sense  of  honor  shrank 
too  long  from  demanding.  ' 

Here  he  took  forth  and  placed  a  letter  in  Isaura's  hand  ; 
and,  as  if  to  allow  her  to  read  it  unobserved,  retired  to  the 
window  recess. 

Isaura  glanced  over  the  letter.     It  ran  thus  : 

"  I  feel  that  it  was  only  to  your  compassion  that  I  owed 
your  consent  to  my  suit.  Could  I  have  doubted  that  before, 
your  words  when  we  last  met  sufficed  to  convince  me.  In  my 
selfish  pain  at  the  moment,  I  committed  a  great  wrong.  I 
would  have  held  you  bound  to  a  promise  from  which  you 
desired  to  be  free.  Grant  me  pardon  for  that,  and  for  all 
the  faults  by  which  I  have  offended  you.  In  cancelling 
our  engagement,  let  me  hope  that  I  may  rejoice  in  your 
friendship,  your  remembrance  of  me,  some  gentle  and  kindly 
thought.  My  life  may  henceforth  pass  out  of  contact  with 
yours  ;  but  you  will  ever  dwell  in  my  heart,  an  image  pure  and 
holy  as  the  saints  in  whom  you  may  well  believe — they  are  of 
your  own  kindred." 

"  May  I  convey  to  Gustave  Rameau  any  verbal  reply  to  his 


THE    PARISIANS.  581 

letter?"  asked  De  Mauleon,  turning  as  she  replaced  the  letter 
on  the  table. 

"Only  my  wishes  for  his  welfare.  It  might  wound  him  if  I 
added,  my  gratitude  for  the  generous  manner  in  which  he  has 
interpreted  my  heart,  and  acceded  to  its  desires." 

"  Mademoiselle,  accept  my  congratulations.  My  condo- 
lences are  for  the  poor  girl  left  to  my  guardianship.  Unhap- 
pily she  loves  this  man  ;  and  there  are  reasons  why  I  cannot 
withhold  my  consent  to  her  union  with  him,  should  he  demand 
it,  now  that,  in  the  letter  remitted  to  you,  he  has  accepted  your 
dismissal.  If  I  can  keep  him  out  of  all  the  follies  and  all  the 
evils  into  which  he  suffers  his  vanity  to  mislead  his  reason,  I 
will  do  so — would  I  might  say,  only  in  compliance  with  your 
compassionate  injunctions.  But  henceforth  the  infatuation  of 
my  ward  compels  me  to  take  some  interest  in  his  career. 
Adieu,  Mademoiselle !  I  have  no  fear  for  your  happiness 
now." 

Left  alone,  Isaura  stood  as  one  transfigured.  All  the  bloom 
of  her  youth  seemed  suddenly  restored.  Round  her  red  lips 
the  dimples  opened,  countless  mirrors  of  one  happy  smile.  "  I 
am  free,  I  am  free,"  she  murmured — "joy,  joy  !  "  and  she 
passed  from  the  room  to  seek  the  Venosta,  singing  clear,  sing- 
ing loud,  as  a  bird  that  escapes  from  the  cage,  and  warbles  to 
the  heaven  it  regains  the  blissful  tale  of  its  release. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

IN  proportion  to  the  nearer  roar  of  the  besiegers'  cannon,  and 
the  sharper  gripe  of  famine  within  the  walls,  the  Parisians 
seemed  to  increase  their  scorn  for  the  skill  of  the  enemy,  and 
their  faith  in  the  sanctity  of  the  capital.  All  false  news  was 
believed  as  truth  ;  all  truthful  news  abhorred  as  falsehood. 
Listen  to  the  groups  round  the  cafes.  "  The  Prussian  funds 
have  fallen  three  per  cent,  at  Berlin,"  says  a  threadbare  ghost 
of  the  Bourse  (he  had  been  a  clerk  of  Louvier's).  "  Ay,"  cries 
a  National  Guard,  "read  extracts  from  'La  LiberteV  The  bar- 
barians are  in  despair.  Nancy  is  threatened,  Belfort  freed. 
Bourbaki  is  invading  Baden.  Our  fleets  are  pointing  their 
cannon  upon  Hamburg.  Their  country  endangered,  their 
retreat  cut  off,  the  sole  hope  of  Bismarck  and  his  trembling 
legions  is  to  find  a  refuge  in  Paris.  The  increasing  fury  of  the 
bombardment  is  a  proof  of  their  despair." 

"  In  that  case,"  whispered  Savarin  to  De   Bre"ze",  "  suppose 


582  THE    PARISIANS. 

we  send  a  flag  of  truce  to  Versailles  with  a  message  from 
Trochu  that,  ojj  disgorging  their  conquests,  ceding  the  left 
bank  of  the  Rhine,  and  paying  the  expenses  of  the  war,  Pa'ris, 
ever  magnanimous  to  the  vanquished,  will  allow  the  Prussians 
to  retire." 

"The  Prussians!  Retire  I",  cried  Edgar  Ferrier,  catching 
the  last  word  and  glancing  fiercely  at  Savarin.  "  What  Prus- 
sian spy  have  we  among  us  ?  Not  one  of  the  barbarians  shall 
escape.  We  have  but  to  dismiss  the  traitors  who  have  usurped 
the  government,  proclaim  the  Commune  and  the  rights  of 
labor,  and  we  give  birth  to  a  Hercules  that  even  in  its  cradle 
can  strangle  the  vipers." 

Edgar  Ferrier  was 'the  sole  member  of  his  political  party 
among  the  group  which  he  thus  addressed  ;  but  such  was  the  ter- 
ror which  the  Communists  already  began  to  inspire  among  the 
bourgeoisie  that  no  one  volunteered  a  reply.  Savarin  linked  his 
arm  in  De  Breze's,  and  prudently  drew  him  off. 

"  I  suspect,"  said  the  former,  "  that  we  shall  soon  have  worse 
calamities  to  endure  than  the  Prussian  obus  and  the  black  loaf. 
The  Communists  will  have  their  day." 

"  I  shall  be  in  my  grave  before  then,"  said  De  Breze,  in  hol- 
low accents.  "  It  is  twenty-four  hours  since  I  spent  my  last 
fifty  sous  on  the  purchase  of  a  rat,  and  I  burnt  the  legs  of  my 
bedstead  for  the  fuel  by  which  that  quadruped  was  roasted." 

" Entre  nous,  my  poor  friend,  I  am  much  in  the  same  condi- 
tion," said  Savarin,  with  a  ghastly  attempt  at  his  old  pleasant 
laugh.  "  See  how  I  am  shrunken  !  My  wife  would  be  un- 
faithful to  the  Savarin  of  her  dreams  if  she  accepted  a  kiss 
from  the  slender  gallant  you  behold  in  me.  But  I  thought  you 
were  in  the  National  Guard,  and  therefore  had  not  to  vanish 
into  air." 

"I  was  a  National  Guard,  but  I  could  not  stand  the  hard- 
ships, and  being  above  the  age,  I  obtained  my  exemption.  As 
to  pay,  I  was  then  too  proud  to  claim  my  wage  of  i  franc  25 
centimes.  I  should  not  be  too  proud  now.  Ah,  blessed  be 
heaven  !  here  comes  Lemercier  ;  he  owes  me  a  dinner — he 
shall  pay  it.  Bon  jour,  my  dear  Frederic  !  How  handsome 
you  look  in  your  ke'pi  !  Your  uniform  is  brilliantly  fresh  from 
the  soil  of  powder.  What  a  contrast  to  the  tatterdemalions  of 
the  Line  !  " 

"  I  fear,"  said  Lemercier  ruefully,  "  that  my  costume  will 
not  look  so  well  a  day  or  two  hence.  'I  have  just  had  news 
that  will  no  doubt  seem  very  glorious — in  the  newspapers.  But 
then  newspapers  are  not  subjected  to  cannon-balls." 


THE    PARISIANS.  583 

"  What  do  you  mean  ? "  answered  De  Bre'ze'. 

*'  I  met,  as  I  emerged  from  my  apartment  a  few  minutes  ago, 
that  fire-eater  Victor  de  Mauleon,  who  always  contrives  to 
know  what  passes  at  headquarters.  He  told  me  that  prepara- 
tions are  being  made  for  a  great  sortie.  Most  probably  the 
announcement  will  appear  in  a  proclamation  to-morrow,  and 
our  troops  march  forth  to-morrow  night.  The  National  Guard 
(fools  and  asses  who  have  been  yelling  out  for  decisive  action) 
are  to  have  their  wish,  and  to  be  placed  in  the  van  of  battle — 
amongst  the  foremost,  the  battalion  in  which  I  am  enrolled. 
Should  this  be  our*  last  meeting  on  earth,  say  that  Frederic 
Lemercier  has  finished  his  part  in  life  with  Mat." 

"  Gallant  friend,"  said  De  Breze,  feebly  seizing  him  by  the 
arm,  "if  it  be  true  that  thy  mortal  career  is  menaced,  die  as 
thou  hast  lived.  An  honest  man  leaves  no  debt  unpaid.  Thou 
owest  me  a  dinner." 

"  Alas  !  ask  of  me  what  is  possible.  I  will  give  thee  three, 
however,  if  I  survive  and  regain  my  rentes.  But  to-day  I  have 
not  even  a  mouse  to  share  with  Fox." 

"  Fox  lives  then  ?  "  cried  De  Breze,  with  sparkling,  hungry 
eyes. 

"  Yes.  At  present  he  is  making  the  experiment  how  long  an 
animal  can  live  without  food." 

"  Have  mercy  upon  him,  poor  beast  !  Terminate  his  pangs 
by  a  noble  death.  Let  him  save  thy  friends  and  thyself  from 
starving.  For  myself  alone  I  do  not  plead  ;  I  am  but  an 
amateur  in  polite  literature.  But  Savarin,  the  illustrious 
Savarin,  in  criticism  the  French  Longinus,  in  poetry  the  Paris- 
ian Horace,  in  social  life  the  genius  of  gayety  in  pantaloons — 
contemplate  his  attenuated  frame  !  Shall  he  perish  for  want 
of  food  while  thou  hast  such  superfluity  in  thy  larder  ?  I  appeal 
to  thy  heart,  thy  conscience,  thy  patriotism.  What,  in  the 
eyes  of  France,  are  a  thousand  Foxes  compared  to  a  single 
Savarin  ?" 

"At  this  moment,"  sighed  Savarin,  "I  could  swallow  any- 
thing, however  nauseous,  even  thy  flattery,  De  Breze.  But,  my 
friend  Frederic,  thou  goest  into  battle — what  will  become  of 
Fox  if  thou  fall  ?  Will  he  not  be  devoured  by  strangers  ? 
Surely  it  were  a  sweeter  thought  to  his  faithful  heart  to  furnish 
a  repast  to  thy  friends  ? — his  virtues  acknowledged,  his  memory 
blest?" 

"  Thou  dost  look  very  lean,  my  poor  Savarin  !  And  how 
hospitable  thou  wert  when  yet  plump  !  "  said  Frederic  pathetic- 
ally. "  And  certainly,  if  I  live,  Fox  will  starve ;  if  I  am  slain, 


THE    PARISIANS. 

Fox  wilt  be  eaten.  Yet,  poor  Fox,  dear  Fox,  who  lay  on  my 
breast  when  I  was  frost-bitten.  No  ;  I  have  not  the  heart  to 
order  him  to  the  spit  for  you.  Urge  it  not." 

"  I  will  save  thee  that  pang,"  cried  De  Breze.  "  We  are  close 
by  thy  rooms.  Excuse  me  for  a  moment :  I  will  run  in  and 
instruct  thy  bonne.'" 

So  saying  he  sprang  forward  with  an  elasticity  of  step  which 
no  one  could  have  anticipated  from  his  previous  languor. 
Frederic  would  have  followed,  but  Savarin  clung  to  him, 
whimpering:  "Stay;  I  shall  fall  like  an  empty  sack,  without 
the  support  of  thine  arm,  young  hero.  Pooh  !  of  course  De 
Breze  is  only  joking — a  pleasant  joke,  Hist  ! — a  secret :  he 
has  moneys,  and  means  to  give  us  once  more  a  dinner  at  his 
own  cost,  pretending  that  we  dine  on  thy  dog.  He  was  plan- 
ning this  when  thou  earnest  up.  Let  him  have  his  joke,  and  we 
shall  have  afestin  de  Balthazar :" 

"  Heir, !  "  said  Frederic  doubtfully  ;  "thou  art  sure  he  has 
no  designs  upon  Fox?" 

"  Certainly  not,  except  in  regaling  us.  Donkey  is  not  bad, 
but  it  is  14  francs  a  pound.  A  pullet  is  excellent,  but  it  is  30 
francs.  Trust  to  De  Breze  ;  we  shall  have  donkey  and  pullet, 
and  Fox  shall  feast  upon  the  remains." 

Before  Frederick  could  reply,  the  two  men  were  jostled  and 
swept  on  by  a  sudden  rush  of  a  noisy  crowd  in  their  rear. 
They  could  but  distinguish  the  words — Glorious  news — vic- 
tory— Faidherbe — Chanzy.  But  these  words  were  sufficient  to 
induce  them  to  join  willingly  in  the  rush.  They  forgot  their 
hunger ;  they  forgot  Fox.  As  they  were  hurried  on,  they 
learned  that  there  was  a  report  of  a  complete  defeat  of  the 
Prussians  by  Faidherbe  near  Amiens  ;  of  a  still  more  decided 
one  on  the  Loire  by  Chanzy.  These  generals,  with  armies 
flushed  with  triumph,  were  pressing  on  towards  Paris  to  accel- 
erate the  destruction  of  the  hated  Germans.  How  the  report 
arose  no  one  exactly  knew.  All  believed  it  and  were  making 
their  way  to  the  Hotel  de  Ville  to  hear  it  formally  confirmed. 

Alas  !  before  they  got  there  they  were  met  by  another  crowd 
returning,  dejected  but  angry.  No  such  news  had  reached  the 
government.  Chanzy  and  Faidherbe  were  no  doubt  fighting 
bravely,  with  every  probability  of  success  ;  but — 

The  Parisian  imagination  required  no  more.  "We  should 
always  be  defeating  the  enemy,"  said  Savarin,  "if  there  were 
not  always  a  but;"  and  his  audience,  who,  had  he  so  expressed 
himself  ten  minutes  before,  would  have  torn  him  to  pieces,  now 
applauded  the  epigram  ;  and  with  execrations  on  Trochu,  min- 


\ 

THE    PARISIANS.  585 

gled  with  many  a  peal  of  painful,  sarcastic  laughter,  .vociferated 
and  dispersed. 

As  the  two  friends  sauntered  back  towards  the  part  of  the 
Boulevards  on  which  De  Breze  had  parted  company  with  them, 
Savarin  quitted  Lemercier  suddenly,  and  crossed  the  street  to 
accost  a  small  party  of  two  ladies  and  two  men  who  were  on 
their  way  to  the  Madeleine.  While  he  was  exchanging  a  few 
words  with  them,  a  young  couple,  arm  in  arm,  passed  by  Le- 
mercier, the  man  in  the  uniform  of  the  National  Guard — uni- 
form as  unsullied  as  Frederic's — but  with  as  little  of  a  military 
.air  as  can  well  be  conceived.  His  gait  was  slouching  ;  his 
head  bent  downwards.  He  did  not  seem  to  listen  to  his  com- 
panion, who  was  talking  with  quickness  and  vivacity,  her  fair 
face  radiant  with  smiles.  Lemercier  looked  after  them  as  they 
passed  by.  "  Sur  man  dme,"  muttered  Frederic  to  himself, 

surely  that  is  la  belle  Julie  ;  and  she  has  got  back  her  truant 
poet  at  last." 

While  Lemercier  thus  soliloquized,  Gustave,  still  looking 
down,  was  led  across  the  street  by  his  fair  companion,  and  into 
the  midst  of  the  little  group  with  whom  Savarin  had  paused  to 
speak.  Accidentally  brushing  against  Savarin  himself,  he 
raised  his  eyes  with  a  start,  about  to  mutter  some  conventional 
apology,  when  Julie  felt  the  arm  on  which  she  leant  tremble 
nervously.  Before  him  stood  Isaura,  the  Countess  de  Vande- 
mar  by  her  side  ;  her  two  other  companions,  Raoul  and  the 
Abbe  Vertpre",  a  step  or  two  behind. 

Gustave  uncovered,  bowed  low,  and  stood  mute  and  still  for  a 
moment,  paralyzed  by  surprise  and  the  chill  of  a  painful  shame. 

Julie's  watchful  eyes,  following  his,  fixed  themselves  on  the 
same  face.  On  the  instant  she  divined  the  truth.  She  beheld 
her  to  whom  she  had  owed  months  of  jealous  agony,  and  over 
whom,  poor  child,  she  thought  she  had  achieved  a  triumph. 
But  the  girl's  heart  was  so  instinctively  good  that  the  sense  of 
triumph  was  merged  in  a  sense  of  compassion.  Her  rival  had 
lost  Gustave.  To  Julie  the  loss  of  Gustave  was  the  loss  of  all 
that  makes  life  worth  having.  On  her  part,  Isaura  was  moved 
not  only  by  the  beauty  of  Julie's  countenance,  but  still  more 
by  the  childlike  ingenuousness  of  its  expression. 

So,  for  the  first  time  in  their  lives,  met  the  child  and  the  step- 
child of  Louise  Duval.  Each  so  deserted,  each  so  left  alone 
and  inexperienced  amid  the  perils  of  the  world,  with  fates  so 
different,  typifying  orders  of  Womanhood  so  opposed.  Isaura 
was  naturally  the  first  to  break  the  silence  that  weighed  like  a 
sensible  load  on  all  present. 


586  THE    PARISIANS. 

She  advanced  towards  Rameau,  with  sincere  kindness  in  her 
look  and  tone. 

"  Accept  my  congratulations,"  she  said  with  a  grave  smile. 
"Your  mother  informed  me  last  evening  of  your  nuptials. 
Without  doubt  I  see  Madame  Gustave  Rameau";  and  she 
extended  her  hand  towards  Julie.  The  poor  Ondine  shrank 
back  for  a  moment,  blushing  up  to  her  temples.  It  was  the  first 
hand  which  a  woman  of  spotless  character  had  extended  to  her 
since  she  had  lost  the  protection  of  Madame  Surville.  She 
touched  it  timidly,  humbly,  then  drew  her  bridegroom  on  ;  and 
with  head  more  downcast  than  Gustave,  passed  through  the- 
group  without  a  word. 

She  did  not  speak  to  Gustave  till  they  were  out  of  sight  and 
hearing  of  those  they  had  left.  Then,  pressing  his  arm  pas- 
sionately she  said  :  "  And  that  is  the  demoiselle  thou  hast  re- 
signed for  me  !  Do  not  deny  it.  I  am  so  glad  to  have  seen 
her  ;  it  has  done  me  so  much  good.  How  it  has  deepened, 
purified  my  love  for  thee  !  I  have  but  one  return  to  make  ; 
but  that  is  my  whole  life.  Thou  shall  never  have  cause  to 
blame  me — never — never  !  " 

Savarin  looked  very  grave  and  thoughtful  when  he  rejoined 
Lemercier. 

"Can  I  believe  my  eyes?"  said  Frederic.  "Surely  that 
was  Julie  Caumartin  leaning  on  Gustave  Rameau's  arm  !  And 
had  he  the  assurance,  so  accompanied,  to  salute  Madame  de 
Vandemar  and  Mademoiselle  Cicogna,  to  whom  I  understood 
he  was  affianced  ?  Nay,  did  I  not  see  Mademoiselle  shake 
hands  with  the  Ondine  ?  Or  am  I  under  one  of  the  illusions 
which  famine  is  said  to  engender  in  the  brain  ?  " 

"I  have  not  strength  now  to  answer  all  these  interrogatives. 
I  have  a  story  to  tell ;  but  I  keep  it  for  dinner.  Let  us  hasten 
to  thy  apartment.  De  Breze  is  doubtless  there  waiting  us." 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

UNPRESCIENT  of  the  perils  that  awaited  him,  absorbed  in  the 
sense  of  existing  discomfort,  cold,  and  hunger,  Fox  lifted  his 
mournful  visage  from  his  master's  dressing-gown,  in  which  he 
had  encoiled  his  shivering  frame,  on  the  entrance  of  De  Brez£ 
and  the  concierge  of  the  house  in  which  Lemercier  had  his 
apartment.  Recognizing  the  Vicomte  as  one  of  his  master's 
acquaintances,  he  checked  the  first  impulse  that  prompted  him 
to  essay  a  feeble  bark,  and  permitted  himself,  with  a  petulant 


THE    PARISIANS.  587 

whine,  to  be  extracted  from  his  covering,  and  held  in  the  arms 
of  the  murderous  visitor. 

"  Dieu  de  dieu!  "  ejaculated  De  Breze",  "  how  light  the  poor 
beast  has  become  !  "  Here  he  pinched  the  sides  and  thighs  of' 
the  victim.  "  Still,"  he  said,  "  there  is  some  flesh  yet  on  these 
bones.  You  may  grill  the  paws,  fricasser  the  shoulders,  and 
roast  the  rest.  The  rognons  and  the  head  accept  for  yourself 
as  a  perquisite."  Here  he  transferred  Fox  to  the  arms  of  the 
concierge,  adding  :  " Vite  a  la  besogne,  man  ami" 

"Yes,  Monsieur,  I  must  be  quick  about  it,  while  my  wife  is 
absent.  She  has  zfaiblesse  for  the  brute.  He  must  be  on  the 
spit  before  she  returns." 

"  Be  it  so  ;  and  on  the  table  in  an  hour — five  o'clock  pre- 
cisely— I  am  famished." 

The  concierge  disappeared  with  Fox.  De  Breze'  then  amused 
himself  by  searching  into  Frederic's  cupboards  and  buffets, 
from  which  he  produced  a  cloth  and  utensils  necessary  for  the 
repast.  These  he  arranged  with  great  neatness,  and  awaited 
in  patience  the  moment  of  participation  in  the  feast. 

The  hour  of  five  had  struck  before  Savarin  and  Frederic 
entered  the  salon,  and  at  their  sight  De  Breze  dashed  to  the 
staircase  and  called  out  to  the  concierge  to  serve  the  dinner. 

Frederic^  though  unconscious  of  the  Thyestean  nature  of  the 
banquet,  still  looked  round  for  the  dog  ;  and,  not  perceiving 
him,  began  to  call  out  :  "  Fox  !  Fox  !  where  hast  thou  hidden 
thyself  ?  " 

"  Tranquillize  yourself,"  said  De  Breze".  "  Do  not  suppose 
that  I  have  not  .  .  .  . " 

NOTE  BY  THE  AUTHOR'S  SON.* — The  hand  that  wrote  thus  far  has  left  unwritten  the  last 
scene  of  the  tragedy  of  poor  Fox.  In  the  deep  where  Prospero  has  dropped  his  wand  are 
now  irrevocably  buried  the  humor  and  the  pathos  of  this  cynophagous  banquet.  One 
detail  of  it,  however,  which  the  author  imparted  to  his  son,  may  here  be  faintly  indicated. 
Let  the  sympathizing  reader  recognize  all  that  is  dramatic  in  the  conflict  between  hunger 
and  affection  ;  let  him  recall  to  mind  the  lachrymose  loving-kindness  of  his  own  post- 
prandial emotions  after  blissfully  breaking  some  fast,  less  mercilessly  prolonged  we  will 
hope,  than  that  of  these  besieged  banqueters  ;  and  then,  though  unaided  by  the  fancy 
which  conceived  so  quaint  a  situation,  he  may  perhaps  imagine  what  tearful  tenderness 
would  fill  the  eyes  of  the  kind-hearted  Frederic,  as  they  contemplate  the  well-picked  bones 
of  his  sacrificed  favorite  o.i  the  platter  before  him,  which  he  pushes  away,  sighing,  "  Ah, 
poor  Fox  !  how  he  would  have  enjoyed  those  bones  !  " 

The  chapter  immediately  following  this  one  also  remains  unfinished.  It  was  not  intended 
to  close  the  narrative  thus  left  uncompleted  ;  but  of  those  many  and  so  various  works  which 
have  not  unworthily  asssociated  with  almost  every  department  of  literature  the_name  of 
a  single  English  writer,  it  is  CHATTER  THE  LAST.  Had  the  author  lived  to  finish  it,  he 
would  doubtless  have  added  to  his  Iliad  of  the  siege  of  Paris  its  most  epic  episode,  by  here 
describing  the  mighty  combat  between  those  two  princes  of  the  Parisian  Bourse,  the  mag- 
nanimous Duplessis  and  the  redoubtable  Louvier.  Amongst  the  few  other  pages  of  the 
book  which  have  been  left  unwritten,  we  must  also  reckon  with  regret  some  page  descrip- 
tive of  the  reconciliation  between  Graham  Vane  and  Isaura  Cicogna  ;  but  fortunately  for  the 
latisfaction  of  every  reader  who  may  have  followed  thus  far  the  fortunes  of  "  The  Paris- 
ians," all  that  our  curiosity  is  chiefly  interested  to  learn  has  been  recorded  in  the  Envoi^ 
frhich  was  written  before  the  completion  of  the  novel. 

*  gee  also  Prefatory  Note, 


588  THE    PARISIANS. 

CHAPTER  THE  LAST. 

AMONG  the  refugees  which  the  convoi  from  Versailles  dis- 
gorged on  the  Paris  station  were  two  men,  who,  in  pushing 
through  the  crowd,  came  suddenly  face  to  face  with  each 
other. 

"  Aha  !  Bon  jour,  M.  Duplessis,"  said  a  burly  voice. 

"  Bon  jour,  M.  Louvier,"  replied  Duplessis. 

"  How  long  have  you  left  Bretagne  ?" 

"  On  the  day  that  the  news  of  the  armistice  reached  it,  in 
order  to  be  able  to  enter  Paris  the  first  day  its  gates  were  open. 
And  you — where  have  you  been  ?  " 

"  In  London." 

"  Ah  !  in  London  !  "  said  Duplessis,  paling.  "  I  knew  I  had 
an  enemy  there." 

"Enemy!  I?  Bah!  my  dear  Monsieur.  What  makes  you 
think  me  your  enemy  ?" 

"I  remember  your  threats." 

"Apropos  of  Rochebriant.  By  the  way,  when  would  it  be 
convenient  to  you  and  the  dear  Marquis  to  let  me  into 
prompt  possession  of  that  property?  You  can  no  longer  pre- 
tend to  buy  it  as  a  dotiov  Mademoiselle  Valerie." 

"  I  know  not  that  yet.  It  is  true  that  all  the  financial  oper- 
ations attempted  by  my  agent  in  London  have  failed.  But  I 
may  recover  myself  yet,  now  that  I  re-enter  Paris.  In  the 
mean  time  we  have  still  six  months  before  us  ;  for,  as  you  will 
find — if  you  know  it  not  already — the  interest  due  to  you  has 
been  lodged  with  Messrs. '-  of ,  and  you  cannot  fore- 
close, even  if  the  law  did  not  take  into  consideration  the 
national  calamities  as  between  debtor  and  creditor." 

We  know  not,  indeed,  what  has  become  of  these  two  Parisian  types  of  a  beauty  not  of 
holiness,  the  poor,  vain  poet  of  the  Pave,  and  the  good-hearted  Ondine  of  the  gutter.  If 
is  obvious,  from  the  absence  of  all  allusion  to  them  in  Lemercier's  letter  to  Vane,  that  they 
had  passed  out  of  the  narrative  before  that  letter  was  written.  We  must  suppose  the 
catastrophe  of  their  fates  to  have  been  described,  in  some  preceding  thapter,  by  the  author 
himself  :  who  would  assuredly  not  have  left  M.  Gustave  Rameau  in  permanent  possession  of 
his  ill-merited  and  ill-ministered  fortune.  That  French  representative  of  the  appropriately 
popular  poetry  of  modern  ideas,  which  prefers  "  the  roses  and  raptures  of  vice  "  to  "  the 
lilies  and  languors  of  virtue,"  cannot  have  been  irredeemably  reconciled  by  the  sweet 
savors  of  the  domestic  pot-au-feu,  even  when  spiced  with  pungent  whiffs  of  repudiated 
disreputability,  to  any  selfish  betrayal  of  the  cause  of  universal  social  emancipation  from 
the  personal  proprieties.  If  poor  JBlie  Caumartin  has  perished  in  the  siege  of  Paris,  with 
all  the  grace  of  a  self-wrought  redemption  still  upon  her,  we  shall  doubtless  deem  her  fate  a 
happier  one  than  any  she  could  have  found  in  prolonged  existence  as  Madame  Rameau  ; 
and  a  certain  modicum  of  this  world's  good  things  will,  in  that  case,  have  been  rescued  for 
worthier  employment  by  Graham  Vane.  To  that  assurance  nothing  but  Lemercier's 
description  of  the  fate  of  Victor  de  Mauleon  (which  will  be  found  in  the  Envoi)  need  be 
add<  d  for  the  satisfaction  of  our  sense  of  poetic  justice  ;  and,  if  on  the  mimic  stage,  from 
whi'  h  they  now  disappear,  all  these  puppets  have  rightly  played  their  parts  in  the  drama 
of  ?(  empire's  fall,  each  will  have  helped  to  "  point  a  moral"  as  well  as  to  "adorn  a 


THE    PARISIANS.  589 

"  Quite  true.  -But  if  you  cannot  buy  the  property  it  must 
pass  into  my  hands  in  a  very  short  time.  And  you  and  the 
Marquis  had  better  come  to  an  amicable  arrangement  with  me. 
Apropos,  I  read  in  the  Times  newspaper  that  Alain  was  among 
the  wounded  in  the  sortie  of  December." 

**'  Yes.  We  learnt  that  through  a  pigeon-post.  We  were 
afraid  .  .  .. 

L'ENVOI. 

THE  intelligent  reader  will  perceive  that  the  story  I  relate 
is  virtually  closed  with  the  preceding  chapter  ;  though  I  rejoice 
to  think  that  what  may  be  called  its  plot  does  not  find  its 
denouement  amidst  the  crimes  and  the  frenzy  of  the  Guerre  des 
Communeux.  Fit  subjects  these,  indeed,  for  the  social  annalist  in 
times  to  come.  When  crimes  that  outrage  humanity  have  their 
motive  or  their  excuse  in  principles  that  demand  the  demoli- 
tion of  all  upon  which  the  civilization  of  Europe  has  its  basis — 
worship,  property,  and  marriage — in  order  to  reconstruct  anew 
civilization  adapted  to  a  new  humanity,  it  is  scarcely  possible 
for  the  serenest  contemporary  to  keep  his  mind  in  that  state  of 
abstract  reasoning  with  which  Philosophy  deduces  from  some 
past  evil  some  existent  good.  For  my  part  I  believe  that 
throughout  the  whole  known  history  of  mankind,  even  in  epochs 
when  reason  is  most  misled  and  conscience  most  perverted, 
there  runs  visible,  though  fine  and  threadlike,  the  chain  of 
destiny,  which  has  its  roots  in  the  throne  of  an  All-wise  and  an 
All-good  ;  that  in  the  wildest  illusions  by  which  multitudes  are 
frenzied,  there  may  be  detected  gleams  of  prophetic  truth  ;  that 
in  the  fiercest  crimes  which,  like  the  disease  of  an  epidemic,  char- 
acterize a  peculiar  epoch  under  abnormal  circumstances,  there 
might  be  found  instincts  or  aspirations  towards  some  social 
virtues  to  be  realized  ages  afterwards  by  happier  generations, 
all  tending  to  save  man  from  despair  of  the  future,  were  the 
whole  society  to  unite  for  the  joyless  hour  of  his  race  in  the 
abjuration  of  soul  and  the  denial  of  God,  because  all  irresistibly 
establishing  that  yearning  towards  an  unseen  future  which  is 
the  leading  attribute  of  soul,  evincing  the  government  of  a 
divine  Thought  which  evolves  out  of  the  discords  of  one  age 
the  harmonies  of  another,  and  in  the  world  within  us  as  in  the 
world  without  enforces  upon  every  unclouded  reason  the  dis- 
tinction between  Providence  and  chance. 

The  account  subjoined  may  suffice  to  say  all  that  rests  to  be 
said  of  those  individuals  in  whose  fate,  apart  from  the  events 


PARISIANS. 

or  personages  that  belong  to  graver  history,  the  reader  of  this 
work  may  have  conceived  an  interest.  It  is  translated  from 
the  letter  of  Frederic  Lemercier  to  Graham  Vane,  dated  June 
,  a  month  after  the  defeat  of  the  Communists. 

"  Dear  and  distinguished  Englishman,  whose  name  I  honor 
but  fail  to  pronounce,  accept  my  cordial  thanks  for  your 
interests  in  such  remains  of  Frederic  Lemercier  as  yet  survive 
the  ravages  of  famine,  Equality,  Brotherhood,  Petroleum,  and 
the  Rights  of  Labor.  I  did  not  desert  my  Paris  when  M. 
Thiers, ' parmula  non  bene  relictdj  led  his  sagacious  friends  and 
his  valiant  troops  to  the  groves  of  Versailles,  and  confided  to 
us  unarmed  citizens  the  preservation  of  order  and  properly 
from  the  insurgents  whom  he  left  in  possession  of  our  forts  and 
cannon.  I  felt  spellbound  by  the  interest  of  the  sinistre  melo- 
drame,  with  its  quick  succession  of  scenic  effects,  and  the 
metropolis  of  the  world  for  its  stage.  Taught  by  experience, 
I  did  not  aspire  to  be  an  actor;  and  even  as  a  spectator,  I  took 
care  neither  to  hiss  nor  applaud.  Imitating  your  happy  En- 
gland, I  observed  a  strict  neutrality  ;  and,  safe  myself  from 
danger,  left  my  best  friends  to  the  care  of  the  gods. 

"As  to  political  questions,  I  dare  not  commit  myself  to  a 
conjecture.  At  this  rouge  et  noir  table,  all  I  can  say  is,  that 
whichever  card  turns  up,  it  is  either  a  red  or  a  black  one. 
One  gamester  gains  for  the  moment  by  the  loss  of  the  other  ; 
the  table  eventually  ruins  both. 

"  No  one  believes  that  the  present  form  of  government  can 
last ;  every  one  differs  as  to  that  which  can.  Raoul  de  Vande- 
mar  is  immovably  convinced  of  the  restoration  of  the  Bourbons. 
Savarin  is  meditating  a  new  journal  devoted  to  the  cause  of  the 
Count  of  Paris.  De  Breze  and  the  old  Count  de  Passy,  having 
in  turn  espoused  and  opposed  every  previous  form  of  govern- 
ment, naturally  go  in  for  a  perfectly  novel  experiment,  and  are 
for  constitutional  dictatorship  under  the  Due  d'Aumale,  which 
he  is  to  hold  at  his  own  pleasure,  and  ultimately  resign  to  his 
nephew  the  Count,  under  the  mild  title  of  a  constitutional 
king;  that  is,  if  it  ever  suits  the  pleasure  of  a  dictator  to 
depose  himself.  To  me  this  seems  the  wildest  of  notions.  If 
the  Due's  administration  were  successful,  the  French  would 
insist  on  keeping  it ;  and  if  the  uncle  were  unsuccessful,  the 
nephew  would  not  have  a  chance.  Duplessis  retains  his  faith 
in  the  Imperial  dynasty  ;  and  that  Imperialist  party  is  much 
stronger  than  it  appears  on  the  surface.  So  many  of  the  bour- 
geoisie recall  with  a  sigh  eighteen  years  of  prosperous  trade ; 
so  many  of  the  military  officers,  so  many  of  the  civil  officials, 


THE    PARISIANS.  501 

identify  their  career  with  the  Napoleonic  favor  ;  and  so  many 
of  the  Priesthood,  abhorring  the  Republic,  always  liable  to  pass 
into  the  hands  of  those  who  assail  religion,  unwilling  to  admit 
the  claim  of  the  Orleanists,  are  at  heart  for  the  Empire. 

"  But  I  will  tell  you  one  secret.  I  and  all  the  quiet  folks 
like  me  (we  are  more  numerous  than  any  one  violent  faction)  are 
willing  to  accept  any  form  of  government  by  which  we  have 
the  best  chance  of  keeping  our  coats  on  our  backs.  Liberte, 
Egalit^  Fraternite  are  gone  quite  out  of  fashion;  and  Made- 
moiselle   has  abandoned  her  great  chant  of  the  Marseil- 
laise, and  is  drawing  tears  from  enlightened  audiences  by  her 
pathetic  delivery  of  '  O  Richard !  O  mon  Roi ! ' 

"  Now  about  the  other  friends  of  whom  you  ask  for  news. 

"Wonders  will  never  cease.  Louvier  and  Duplessis  are  no 
longer  deadly  rivals.  They  have  become  sworn  friends,  and  are 
meditating  a  great  speculation  in  common,  to  commence  as  soon 
as  the  Prussian  debt  is  paid  off.  Victor  de  Mauleon  brought 
about  this  reconciliation  in  a  single  interview  during  the  brief 
interregnum  between  the  Peace  and  the  Guerre  des  Communeux. 
You  know  how  sternly  Louvier  was  bent  upon  seizing  Alain 
de  Rochebriant's  estates.  Can  you  conceive  the  true  cause? 
Can  you  imagine  it  possible  that  a  hardened  money-maker 
like  Louvier  should  ever  allow  himself  to  be  actuated,  one  way 
or  the  other,  by  the  romance  of  a  sentimental  wrong  ?  Yet  so 
it  was.  It  seems  that  many  years  ago  he  was  desperately  in 
love  with  a  girl  who  disappeared  from  his  life,  and  whom  he 
believed  to  have  been  seduced  by  the  late  Marquis  de  Roche- 
briant.  It  was  in  revenge  for  this  supposed  crime  that  he  had 
made  himself  the  principal  mortgagee  of  the  late  Marquis  ; 
and,  visiting  the  sins  of  the  father  on  the  son,  had,  under  the 
infernal  disguise  of  friendly  interest,  made  himself  sole  mort- 
gagee to  Alain,  upon  terms  apparently  the  most  generous. 
The  demon  soon  showed  his  grt/'e,  and  was  about  to  foreclose, 
when  Duplessis  came  to  Alain's  relief  ;  and  Rochebriant  was 
to  be  Valerie's  dot  on  her  marriage  with  Alain.  The  Prussian 
war,  of  course,  suspended  all  such  plans,  pecuniary  and  matri- 
monial. Duplessis,  whose  resources  were  terribly  crippled  by 
the  war,  attempted  operations  in  London  with  a  view  of  rais- 
ing the  sum  necessary  to  pay  off  the  mortgage — found  himself 
strangely  frustrated  and  baffled.  Louvier  was  in  London,  and 
defeated  his  rival's  agent  in  every  speculation.  It  became 
impossible  for  Duplessis  to  redeem  the  mortgage.  The  two 
men  came  to  Paris  with  the  peace.  Louvier  determined  both 
to  seize  the  Breton  lands  and  to  complete  the  ruin  of  Duples- 


$92  THE  ?ARisiAN3. 

sis  ;  when  he  learned  from  De  Mauleon  that  he  had  spent  half 
his  life  in  a  baseless  illusion  ;  that  Alain's  father  was  innocent 
of  the  crime  for  which  his  son  was  to  suffer ;  and  Victor,  with 
that  strange  power  over  men's  minds,  which  was  so  peculiar  to 
him,  talked  Louvier  into  mercy  if  not  into  repentance.  In  short, 
the  mortgage  is  to  be  paid  off  by  instalments  at  the  convenience 
of  Duplessis.  Alain's  marriage  with  Valerie  is  to  take  place  in 
a  few  weeks.  The  fournisseurs  are  already  gone  to  fit  up  the 
old  chdteau  for  the  bride,  and  Louvier  is  invited  to  the  wed- 
ding. 

"  I  have  all  this  story  from  Alain,  and  from  Duplessis  him- 
self. I  tell  the  tale  as  'twas  told  to  me,  with  all  the  gloss  of 
sentiment  upon  its  woof.  But  between  ourselves,  I  am  too 
Parisian  not  to  be  sceptical  as  to  the  unalloyed  amiability  of 
sudden  conversions.  And  I  suspect  that  Louvier  was  no  longer 
in  a  condition  to  indulge  in  the  unprofitable  whim  of  turning 
rural  seigneur.  He  had  sunk  large  sums  and  incurred  great 
liabilities  in  the  new  street  to  be  called  after  his  name  ;  and 
that  street  has  been  twice  ravaged,  first  by  the  Prussian  siege, 
and  next  by  the  Guerre  des  Communeux ;  and  I  can  detect 
many  reasons  why  Louvier  should  deem  it  prudent  not  only  to 
withdraw  from  the  Rochebriant  seizure,  and  make  sure  of 
peacefully  recovering  the  capital  lent  on  it,  but  establishing  joint 
interest  and  ^^/-partnership  with  a  financier  so  brilliant  and 
successful  as  Armand  Duplessis  has  hitherto  been. 

"Alain  himself  is  not  quite  recovered  from  his  wound,  and 
is  now  at  Rochebriant,  nursed  by  his  aunt  and  Valerie.  I  have 
promised  to  visit  him  next  week.  Raoul  de  Vandemar  is  still 
at  Paris  with  his  mother,  saying  there  is  no  place  where  one 
Christian  man  can  be  of  such  service.  The  old  Count  declines 
to  come  back,  saying  there  is  no  place  where  a  philosopher  can 
be  in  such  danger. 

"  I  reserve  as  my  last  communication,  in  reply  to  your  ques- 
tions, that  which  is  the  gravest.  You  say  that  you  saw  in  the 
public  journals  brief  notice  of  the  assassination  of  Victor  de 
Mauleon  ;  and  you  ask  for  such  authentic  particulars  as  I  can 
give  of  that  event,  and  of  the  motives  of  the  assassin. 

"  I  need  not,  of  course,  tell  you  how  bravely  the  poor 
Vicomte  behaved  throughout  the  siege  ;  but  he  made  many 
enemies  among  the  worst  members  of  the  National  Guard  by 
the  severity  of  his  discipline  ;  and  had  he  been  caught  by  the 
mob  the  same  day  as  Clement  Thomas,  who  committed  the 
same  offence,  would  have  certainly  shared  the  fate  of  that 
general.  Though  elected  a  dfyute,  he  remained  at  Paris  a  femr 


THE    PARISIANS.  $93 

days  after  Thiers  and  Co.  left  it,  in  the  hope  of  persuading  the 
party  of  Order,  including  then  no  small  portion  of  the  National 
Guards,  to  take  prompt  and  vigorous  measures  to  defend  the 
city  against  the  Communists.  Indignant  at  their  pusillanimity, 
he  then  escaped  to  Versailles.  There  he  more  than  confirmed 
the  high  reputation  he  had  acquired  during  the  siege,  and 
impressed  the  ablest  public  men  with  the  belief  that  he  was 
destined  to  take  a  very  leading  part  in  the  strife  of  party. 
When  the  Versailles  troops  entered  Paris,  he  was,  of  course, 
among  them  in  command  of  a  battalion. 

"  He  escaped  safe  through  that  horrible  war  of  barricades, 
though  no  man  more  courted  danger.  He  inspired  his  men 
with  his  own  courage.  It  was  not  till  the  revolt  was  quenched 
on  the  evening  of  the  2oth  May  that  he  met  his  death.  The 
Versailles  soldiers,"  naturally  exasperated,  were  very  prompt  in 
seizing  and  shooting  at  once  every  passenger  who  looked  like  a 
foe.  Some  men  under  De  Mauleon  had  seized  upon  one  of 
these  victims,  and  were  hurrying  him  into  the  next  street  for 
execution,  when,  catching  sight  of  the  Vicomte,  he  screamed 
out, '  Lebeau,  save  me  ! ' 

"  At  that  cry  De  Mauleon  rushed  forward,  arrested  his  sol- 
diers, cried:  'This  man  is  innocent — a  harmless  physician.  I 
answer  for  him.'  As  he  thus  spoke,  a  wounded  Communist, 
lying  in  the  gutter  amidst  a  heap  of  the  slain,  dragged  himself 
up,  reeled  towards  De  Mauleon,  plunged  a  knife  between  his 
shoulders,  and  dropped  down  dead. 

"  The  Vicomte  was  carried  into  a  neighboring  house,  from 
all  the  windows  of  which  the  tricolor  was  suspended  ;  and  the 
Mtdecin  whom  he  had  just  saved  from  summary  execution  ex- 
amined and  dressed  his  wound.  The  Vicomte  lingered  for 
more  than  an  hour,  but  expired  in  the  effort  to  utter  some 
words,  the  sense  of  which  those  about  him  endeavored  in  vain 
to  seize. 

"  It  was  from  the  Mederin  that  the  name  of  the  assassin  and 
the  motive  for  the  crime  were  ascertained.  The  miscreant  was 
a  Red  Republican  and  Socialist  named  Armand  Monnier. 
He  had  been  a  very  skilful  workman,  and  earning,  as  such, 
high  wages.  But  he  thought  fit  to  become  an  active  revolu- 
tionary politician,  first  led  into  schemes  for  upsetting'the  world 
by  the  existing  laws  of  marriage,  which  had  inflicted  on  him 
one  woman  who  ran  away  from  him,  but  being  still  legally  his 
wife,  forbade  him  to  marry  another  woman  with  whom  he 
lived,  and  to  whom  he  seems  to  have  been  passionately  at- 
tached. 


594  THE   PARISIANS. 

"These  schemes,  however,he  did  not  put  into  any  positive  prac- 
tice, till  he  fell  in  with  a  certain  Jean  Lebeau,  who  exercised 
great  influence  over  him,  and  by  whom  he  was  admitted  into 
one  of  the  secret  revolutionary  societies  which  had  for  their 
object  the  overthrow  of  the  Empire.  After  that  time  his  head 
became  turned.  The  fall  of  the  Empire  put  an  end  to  the  so- 
ciety he  had  joined  :  Lebeau  dissolved  it.  During  the  siege 
Monnier  was  a  sort  of  leader  among  the  ouvriers ;  but  as  it 
advanced  and  famine  commenced,  he  contracted  the  habit  of 
intoxication.  Hischildren  diedof  cold  and  hunger.  The  wom- 
an he  lived  with  followed  them  to  the  grave.  Then  he  seems 
to  have  become  a  ferocious  madman,  and  to  have  been  impli- 
cated in  the  worst  crimes  of  the  Communists.  He  cherished 
a  wild  desire  of  revenge  against  this  Jean  Lebeau,  to  whom  he 
attributed  all  his  calamities,  and  by  whom,  he  said,  his  brother 
had  been  shot  in  the  sortie  of  December. 

"  Here  comes  the  strange  part  of  the  story.  This  Jean 
Lebeau  is  alleged  to  have  been  one  and  the  same  person  with 
Victor  de  Mauleon.  The  Me'decin  I  have  named,  and  who  is  well 
known  in  Belleville  and  Montmartre  as  the  Me'decin  des  Paui>res, 
confesses  that  he  belonged  to  the  secret  society  organized  by 
Lebeau  ;  that  the  disguise  the  Vicomte  assumed  was  so  com- 
plete that  he  should  not  have  recognized  his  identity  with  the 
conspirator  but  for  an  accident.  During  the  latter  time  of  the 
bombardment,  he,  the  Me'decin  des  Pauvres,  was  on  the  eastern 
ramparts,  and  his  attention  was  suddenly  called  to  a  man 
mortally  wounded  by  the  splinter  of  a  shell.  While  examin- 
ing the  nature  of  the  wound,  De  Mauleon,  who  was  also  on 
the  ramparts,  came  to  the  spot.  The  dying  man  said,  '  M.  le 
Vicomte,  you  owe  me  a  service.  My  name  is  Marc  le  Roux. 
I  was  on  the  police  before  the  war.  When  M.  de  Mauleon 
reassumed  his  station,  and  was  making  himself  obnoxious  to 
the  Emperor,  I  might  have  denounced  him  as  Jean  Lebeau 
the  conspirator.  I  did  not.  The  siege  has  reduced  me  to 
want.  I  have  a  child  at  home — a  pet.  Don't  let  her  starve.' 
'  I  will  see  her,'  said  the  Vicomte.  Before  we  could  get  the 
man  into  the  ambulance  cart  he  expired. 

"  The  Me'decin  who  told  this  story  I  had  the  curiosity  to  see 
myself,  ami  cross-question.  I  own  I  believe  his  statement. 
Whether  De  Mauleon  did  or  did  not  conspire  against  a  fallen 
dynasty,  to  which  he  owed  no  allegiance,  can  little  if  at  all 
injure  the  reputation  he  has  left  behind  of  a  very  remarkable 
man,  of  great  courage  and  great  ability,  who  might  have  had  a 
splendid  career  if  he  had  survived.  But,  as  Savarin  says  truly. 


THE  PARISIANS.  59$ 

the  first  bodies  which  the  car  of  revolution  crushes  down  are 
those  which  first  harness  themselves  to  it. 

"  Among  De  Mauleon's  papers  is  the  programme  of  a  con- 
stitution fitted  for  France.  How  it  got  into  Savarin's  hands  I 
know  not.  De  Mauleon  left  no  will,  and  no  relations  came 
forward  to  claim  his  papers.  I  asked  Savarin  to  give  me  the 
heads  of  the  plan,  which  he  did.  They  are  as  follows  : 

"  '  The  American  republic  is  the  sole  one  worth  studying, 
for  it  has  lasted.  The  causes  of  its  duration  are  in  the  checks 
to  democratic  fickleness  and  disorder.  First.  No  law  affect- 
ing the  Constitution  can  be  altered  without  the  consent  of  two- 
thirds  of  Congress.  Second.  To  counteract  the  impulses 
natural  to  a  popular  Assembly  chosen  by  universal  suffrage, 
the  greater  legislative  powers,  especially  in  foreign  affairs,  are 
vested  in  the  Senate,  which  has  even  executive  as  well  as  legis- 
lative functions.  Third.  The  Chief  of  the  State,  having 
elected  his  government,  can  maintain  it  independent  of  hostile 
majorities  in  either  assembly. 

"  '  These  three  principles  of  safety  to  form  the  basis  of  any 
new  constitution  of  France. 

' '  For  France  it  is  essential  that  the  chief  magistrate,  under 
whatever  title  he  assume,  should  be  as  irresponsible  as  an 
English  sovereign.  Therefore  he  should  not  preside  at  his 
councils  ;  he  should  not  lead  his  armies.  The  day  for  per- 
sonal government  is  gone,  even  in  Prussia.  The  safety  for 
order  in  a  State  is,  that  when  things  go  wrong,  the  Ministry 
changes,  the  State  remains  the  same.  In  Europe,  Republican 
institutions  are  safer  where  the  chief  magistrate  is  hereditary 
than  where  elective.' 

"  Savarin  says  these  axioms  are  carried  out  at  length,  and 
argued  with  great  ability. 

"I  am  very  grateful  for  your  proffered  hospitalities  in  En- 
gland. Some  day  I  shall  accept  them,  viz.,  whenever  I  de- 
cide on  -domestic  life,  and  the  calm  of  the  conjugal/*?)^/-.  I 
have  a  penchant  for  an  English  Mees,  and  am  not  exacting  as 
to  the  dot.  Thirty  thousand  livres  sterling  would  satisfy  me — 
a  trifle,  I  believe,  to  you  rich  islanders. 

"  Meanwhile  I  am  naturally  compelled  to  make  up  for  the 
miseries  of  that  horrible  siege.  Certain  moralizing  journals 
tell  us  that,  sobered  by  misfortunes,  the  Parisians  are  going  to 
turn  over  a  new  leaf,  become  studious  and  reflective,  despise 
pleasure  and  luxury,  and  live  like  German  professors.  Don't 
believe  a  word  of  it.  My  conviction  is  that,  whatever  ma«y  be 
?aid  as  to  our  frivolity,  extravagance,  etc.,  under  the  Empire, 


59^  THE   PARISIANS. 

we  shall  be  just  the  same  under  any  form  of  government — the 
bravest,  the  most  timid,  the  most  ferocious,  the  kindest-hearted, 
the  most  irrational,  the  most  intelligent,  the  most  contradictory, 
the  most  consistent  people  whom  Jove,  taking  counsel  of  Venus 
and  the  Graces,  Mars  and  the  Furies,  ever  created  for  the 
delight  and  terror  of  the  world — in  a  word,  the  Parisians. 
Votre  tout  devoue, 

"  FREDERICK  LEMERCIER." 

It  is  a  lovely  noon  on  the  Bay  of  Sorrento,  towards  the  close 
of  the  autumn  of  1871,  upon  the  part  of  the  craggy  shore  to 
the  left  of  the  town,  on  which  her  first  perusal  of  the  loveliest 
poem  in  which  the  romance  of  Christian  heroism  has  ever  com- 
bined elevation  of  thought  with  silvery  delicacies  of  speech, 
had  charmed  her  childhood,  reclined  the  young  bride  of  Gra- 
ham Vane.  They  were  in  the  first  month  of  their  marriage. 
Jsaura  had  not  yet  recovered  from  the  effects  of  all  that  had 
preyed  upon  her  life,  from  the  hour  in  which  she  had  deemed 
that  in  her  pursuit  of  fame  she  had  lost  the  love  that  had  col- 
ored her  genius  and  inspired  her  dreams,  to  that  in  which. . . . 

The  physicians  consulted  agreed  in  insisting  on  her  passing 
the  winter  in  a  southern  climate  ;  and  after  their  wedding, 
which  took  place  in  Florence,  they  thus  came  to  Sorrento. 

As  Isaura  is  seated  on  the  small,  smoothed  rocklet,  Graham 
reclines  at  her  feet,  his  face  upturned  to  hers  with  an  inexpres- 
sible wistful  anxiety  in  his  impassioned  tenderness.  "You  are 
sure  you  feel  better  and  stronger  since  we  have  been  here  ? " 


THE   END. 


THE  PILGRIMS  OF  THE  RHINE 


•ro 


HENRY  LYTTON  BULWER. 


ALLOW  me,  my  dear  Brother,  to  dedicate  this  Work  to  you.  The  greater 
part  of  it  (viz.,  the  tales  which  vary  and  relieve  the  voyages  of  Gertrude  and 
Trevylyan)  was  written  in  the  pleasant  excursion  we  made  together  some 
years  ago.  Among  the  associations — some  sad,  and  some  pleasing — con- 
nected with  the  general  design,  none  are  so  agreeable  to  me  as  those  that 
remind  me  of  the  friendship  subsisting  between  us,  and  which,  unlike  that 
of  near  relations  in  general,  has  grown  stronger  and  more  intimate  as  our 
footsteps  have  receded  farther  from  the  fields  where  we  played  together  in 
our  childhood.  I  dedicate  this  Work  to  you  with  the  more  pleasure,  not 
only  when  I  remember  that  it  has  always  been  a  favorite  with  yourself,  but 
when  I  think  that  it  is  one  of  my  writings  most  liked  in  foreign  countries  ; 
and  I  may  possibly,  therefore,  have  found  a  record  destined  to  endure  the 
affectionate  esteem  which  this  Dedication  is  in!  ended  to  convey. 

Yours,  etc., 

LONDON,  E.  L.  B. 

April  23,  1840. 


ui 


ADVERTISEMENT    TO   THE    FIRST 
EDITION. 


COULD  I  prescribe  to  the  critic  and  to  the  public,  I  would  wish  that  this 
work  might  be  tried  by  the  rules  rather  of  poetry  than  prose,  for  according 
to  those  rules  have  been  both  its  conception  and  its  execution  ;  and  I  feel 
that  something  of  sympathy  with  the  au'.hor's  design  is  requisite  to  win 
indulgence  for  the  superstitions  he  has  incorporated  with  his  tale  ;  for  the 
floridity  of  his  style  and  the  redundance  of  his  descriptions.  Perhaps, 
indeed,  it  would  be  impossible,  in  attempting  to  paint  the  scenery  and 
embody  some  of  the  Legends  of  the  Rhine,  not  to  give  (it  may  be,  too  loosely) 
the  reins  to  the  imagination,  or  to  e.-cape  the  influence  of  that  wild  German 
sp;rit  which  I  have  sought  to  transfer  to  a  colder  tongue. 

I  have  "made  the  experiment  of  selecting  for  the  main  interest  of  my  work 
the  simplest  materials,  and  weaving  upon  them  the  ornaments  given  chiefly 
to  subjects  of  a  more  fanciful  nature.  I  know  not  how  far  1  have  succeeded, 
but  vaiious  reasons  have  conspired  to  make  this  the  work,  above  all  others 
that  I  have  written,  which  has  given  me  the  most  delight  (though  not  un- 
mixed with  melancholy)  in  producing,  and  in  which  my  mind,  for  the  time, 
has  been  the  most  completely  absorbed.  But  the  ardnr  of  composition  is 
often  disproportioned  to  the  merit  of  the  wosk  ;  and  the  public  sometimes, 
not  unjustly,  avenges  itself  f"r  that  forgetfulness  of  its  existence,  which 
makes  the  chief  chaim  of  an  author's  solitude — and  the  happiest,  if  not  the 
wisest,  inspiration  of  i.is  dreams. 


PREFACE   TO  THE  PILGRIMS   OF  THE 
RHINE. 


WITH  the  younger  class  of  my  readers,  this  work  has  had  the  good  for- 
tune  to  tmd  especial  favor  ;  peihaps  because  it  is  in  itself  a  collection  of  the 
thoughts  and  sentiments  that  constitute  the  Romance  of  youth.  It  has  lit- 
tle to  do  with  the  positive  truths  of  our  actual  life,  and  does  not  pretend  to 
deal  with  the  larger  pas>ions  and  more  stirring  interests  of  our  kind.  It  is 
but  an  episode  out  of  the  graver  epic  of  human  destinies.  It  requires  no 
explanation  of  its  purpose,  and  no  analysis  of  its  story  ;  the  one  is  evident, 
the  oiht  r  simple  :  the  first  seeks  but  to  illustrate  visible  nature  through  the 
poetry  of  the  affections  ;  the  other  is  but  the  narrative  of  the  most  real  of 
mortal  sorrows  which  the  Author  attempts  to  take  out  of  the  region  of  pain, 
by  various  accessories  from  the  Ideal.  The  connecting  tale  itself  is  but  the 
string  that  binds  into  a  garland  the  wild  flowers  cast  upon  a  grave. 

The  descriptions  of  the  Rhine  have  been  considered  by  Germans  suffi- 
ciently faithful  to  render  this  tribute  to  their  land  and  their  legends  one  of 
the  popular  guide-books  along  the  course  it  illustiates — especially  to  such 
tourists  as  wish  not  only  to  take  in  with  the  eye  the  inventory  of  the  river, 
but  to  seize  the  peculiar  spirit  which  invests  the  wave  and  the  bank  with  a 
beauty  that  can  only  be  made  visible  by  reflection.  He  little  comprehends 
the  true  charm  of  the  Rhine,  who  gazes  on  the  vines  on  the  hill-tops  without 
a  thought  of  the  imaginary  world  with  which  their  recesses  have  been  peopled 
by  the  graceful  credulity  of  old  ;  who  surveys  the  steep  ruins  that  over- 
shadow the  water,  untouched  by  one  lesson  from  the  pensive  morality  of 
Time.  Everywhere  around  us  is  the  evidence  of  perished  opinions  and 
departed  races  ;  everywhere  around  us,  also,  the  rejoicing  fertility  of  uncon- 
querable Nature,  and  the  calm  progress  of  Man  himself  through  the  infinite 
cycles  of  decay.  He  who  would  judge  adequately  of  a  landscape,  mu^t 
regard  it  not  only  with  the  painter's  eye,  but  with  the  poet's.  The  feelings 
which  the  sight  of  any  scene  in  Nature  conveys  to  the  mind — more  espe- 
cially of  any  scene  on  which  history  or  fiction  has  left  its  trace — must  depend 
upon  our  sympathy  with  those  associations  which  make  up  what  may  be 
called  the  spiritual  character  of  the  spot.  If  indifferent  to  those  associations, 
we  should  see  only  hedgerows  and  ploughed  land  in  the  battlefield  of  Ban- 
nockburn  ;  and  the  traveller  would  but  look  on  a  dreary  waste,  whether  he 
stood  amidst  the  piles  of  the  Diuid  on  Salisbury  plain,  or  trod  his  bewildered 
way  over  the  broad  expanse  on  which  the  Chaldean  first  learned  to  number 
the  stars. 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  .        PACK 

POEM  on  the  Ideal  World  ... 9 

I.     In  which  the  Reader  is  introduced  to  Queen  Nymphalin.  .  19 

II.     The  Lovers 22 

III.     Feelings 27 

IV.     The  Maid  of  Malines. 30 

V.  Rotterdam. — The  Character  of  the  Dutch. — Their  Resem- 
blance to  the  Germans. — A  Dispute  between  Vane  and 
Trevylyan,  after  the  Manner  of  the  Ancient  Novelists, 
as  to  which  is  Preferable,  the  Li'e  of  Action  or  the 
Life  of  Repose. — Trevylyan's  Contrast  between  "Lit- 
erary Ambition  and  the  Ambition  of  Public  Life 54 

VI.     Gorcum.— The  Tour  of  the  Virtues  :  a  Philosopher's  Tale.       61 

VII.  Cologne.— The  Traces  of  the  Roman  Yoke.— The  Church 
of  St.  Maria. — Trevylyan's  Reflections  on  the  Monastic 
Life. — The  Tomb  of  the  Three  Kings. — An  Evening 
Excursion  on  the  Rhine 70 

VIII.     The  Soul  in  Purgatory  ;  or,  Love  Stronger  than  Death... .       73 

IX.  The  Scenery  of  the  Rhine  analogous  to  the  German  Lit- 
erary Genius. — The  Drachenfels 77 

X.  The  Legend  of'  Roland. — The  Adventures  of  Nymphalin 
on  the  Island  of  Nonnewerth. — Her  Song. — The  De- 
cay of  the  Fairy-faith  in  England 78 

XL  "Wherein  the  Reader  is  made  Spectator  with  the  English 
Fairies  of  the  Scenes  and  Beings  that  are  beneath  the 
Earth.  83 

XII.     The  Wooing  of  Master  Fox 86 

XIII.  The  Tomb  of  a  Father  of  Many  Children 106 

XIV.  The  Fairy's  Cave  and  the  Fairy's  Wish 107 

XV.     The  Banks  of  the  Rhine.— From  the  Drachenfels  to  Brohl  : 

an  Incident  that  suffices  in  this  Tale  for  an  Epoch. . .      108 

XVI.     Gertrude. — The  Excursion  to  Hammerstein. — Thoughts.,     in 

XVII.     Letter  from  Trevylyan  to  113 

vii 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

XVIII.  Coblentz. — Excursion  to  the  Mountains  of  Taunus;  Roman 
Tower  in  the  Valley  of  Ehrenbreitstein. — Tiavel,  its 
Pleasures  estimated  Differently  by  the  Young  and  the 
Old. — The  Student  of  Heidelberg  ;  his  Criticisms  on 
German  Literature 115 

XIX.     The  Fallen  Star  ;  or,  the  History  of  a  False  Religion 119 

XX.     Gelnhausen. — The  Power  of  Love  in  Sanctified  Places. — 
.     A  Portrait  of  Frederick  Barbarossa. — The  Ambition  of 

Men  find  no  Adequate  Sympathy  in  Women 146 

XXI.     View   of   Ehrenbreitstein. — A  New  Alarm  in  Gertrude's 

Health. — Trarbach 148 

XXII.     The  Double  Life.— Trevylyan's  Fate. — Sorrow  the  Parent 

of  Fame. — Niederlahnslein. — Dieams 150 

XXIII.  The  Life  of  Dreams 152 

XXIV.  The  Brothers 157 

XXV.     The  Immortality  of  the  Soul. — A  Common  Incident  not 

before  Desciibed. — Trevylyan  and  Gertrude 178 

XXVI.  In  which  the  Reader  will  learn  how  the  Fairies  were  Re- 
ceived by  the  Sovereigns  of  the  Mines. — The  Com- 
plaint of  the  Last  of  the  Fauns. — The  Red  Huntsman. 
— The  Storm.— Death..  180 


XXVII. 


XXVIII. 


XXIX. 
XXX. 

XXXI. 

XXXII. 
XXXIII. 


Thurmberg. — A  Storm  upon  the  Rhine. — The  Ruins  of 
Rheinfels. — Peril  unfelt  by  Love. — The  Echo  of  the 
Lurlei-berg. — St.  Goar. — Caub,  Gutenfels,  and  Pfalz- 
grafenstein. — A  certain  Vastness  of  Mind  in  the  First 
Hermits. — The  Scenery  of  the  Rhine  to  Bacharach. . . 


187 


The  Voyage  to  Bingen. — The  Simple  Incidents  in  this 
Tale  Excused. — The  Situation  and  Character  of  Ger- 
trude.— The  Conversation  of  the  Lovers  in  the  Temple. 
— A  Fact  Contradicted. — Thoughts  occasioned  by  a 
Madhouse  amongst  the  most  Beautiful  Landscapes  of 
the  Rhine 190 

Ellfeld. — Mayence. — Heidelberg. — A  Conversation  be- 
tween Vane  and  the  German  Student. — The  Ruins  of 
the  Castle  of  Heidelberg  and  its  Solitary  Habitant. . . .  195 

No  Part  of  the  Earth  really  Solitary.— The  Song  of  the 
Fairies.— The  Sacred  Spot.— The  Witch  of  the  Evil 
Winds. — The  Spell  and  the  Duty  of  the  Fairies 200 

Gertrude  and  Trevylyan,  when  the  Former  is  Awakened  to 

the  Approach  of  Death 203 

A  Spot  to  be  Buried  in 205 

The  Conclusion  of  this  Tale 206 


To  the  former  editions  of  this  tale  was  prefixed  a  poem  on  "  The  Ideal,"  which  had  all 
the  worst  faults  of  the  author's  earliest  compositions  in  verse.  The  present  poem  (with 
the  exception  of  a  very  few  lines)  has  been  entirely  re-written,  and  has  at  least  the  com- 
parative merit  of  being  less  vague  in  the  thoi'ght,  and  less  unpolished  in  the  diction,  than 
that  which  it  replaces. 
EMS,  1849. 


THE    IDEAL  WORLD. 


i. 

'THE  IDEAL  WORLD — ITS  REALM  is  EVERYWHERE  AROUND  us — ITS  INHAB- 
ITANTS ARE  THE  IMMORTAL  PERSONIFICATIONS  OK  ALL  BEAUTIFUL 
THOUGHTS — TO  THAT  WORLD  WE  ATTAIN  BY  THE  REPOSE  OF  THE 
SENSES. 

AROUND  "  this  visible  diurnal  sphere," 

There  floats  a  World  that  girds  us  like  the  space ; 
On  wandering  clouds  and  gliding  beams  career 

Its  ever-moving,  murmurous  populace. 
There,  all  the  lovelier  thoughts  conceived  below 
,    Ascending  live,  and  in  celestial  shapes. 
To  that  bright  World,  O  Mortal,  wouldst  thou  go  ? 

Bind  but  thy  senses,  and  thy  soul  escapes  ; 
To  care,  to  sin,  to  passion  close  thine  eyes  ; 
Sleep  in  the  flesh,  and  see  the  Dreamland  rise ! 
Hark,  to  the  gush  of  golden  waterfalls, 
Or  knightly  tromps  at  Archimagian  Walls  1 
In  the  green  hush  of  Dorian  Valleys  mark 

The  River  Maid  her  amber  tresses  knitting  ; 
When  glow-worms  twinkle  under  coverts  dark, 

And  silver  clouds  o'er  summer  stars  are  flitting, 
Wuh  jocund  elves  invade  "  the  Moone's  sphere, 
"  Or  hang  a  pearl  in  every  cowslip's  ear  ";  * 
Or,  list  !  what  time  the  roseate  urns  of  dawn 

Scatter  fresh  dews,  and  the  first  skylark  weaves 
Joy  into  song — the  blithe  Arcadian  Faun 

Piping  to  wood-nymphs  under  Bromian  leaves, 
While  slowly  gleaming  through  the  purple  glade 
Come  Evian's  panther  car,  and  the  pale  Naxian  Maid. 

*  "  Midsummer  Night's  Dream." 


IO  THE    IDEAL.    WORLD. 

Such,  O  Ideal  World,  thy  habitants ! 

All  the  fair  children  of  creative  creeds — 
All  the  lost  tribes  of  Phantasy  are  thine — 
From  antique  Saturn  in  Dodonian  haunts, 

Or  Pan's  first  music  waked  from  shepherd  reeds, 
To  the  last  sprite  when  Heaven's  pale  lamps  decline, 
Heard  wailing  soft  along  the  solemn  Rhine. 


II. 

OUR    DREAMS    BELONG    TO    THE    IDEAL — THE    DIVINER    LOVE    FOR    WHICH 
YOUTH    SIGHS,    NOT    ATTAINABLE   IN   LIFE — BUT    THE   PURSUIT  OK  THAT 
I    LOVE,    BEYOND    THE  WORLD    OF  THE  SENSES,    PURIFIES  THE   SOUL,    AND 
'    AWAKES  THE  GENIUS — PETRARCH — DANTE. 

Thine  are  the  Dreams  that  pass  the  Ivory  Gates, 

With  prophet  shadows  haunting  poet  eyes  ! 
Thine  the  beloved  illusions  youth  creates 

From  the  dim  haze  of  its  own  happy  skies. 
In  vain  we  pine — we  yearn  on  eaith  to  win 

The  being  of  the  heart,  our  boyhood's  dream. 
The  Psyche  and  the  Eros  ne'er  have  been, 

Save  in  Olympus,  wedded  !     As  a  stream 
Glasses  a  star,  so  life  the  ideal  love  ; 
y  Restless  the  stream  below — serene  the  orb  above  ! 

Ever  the  soul  the  senses  shall  deceive  ; 
Here  custom  chill,  there  kinder  fate  bereave  : 
For  mortal  lips  unmeet  eternal  vows  ! 
And  Eden's  flowers  for  Adam's  mournful  brows  ! 
We  seek  to  make  the  moment's  angel  guest 

The  household  dweller  at  a  human  hearth  ; 
We  chase  the  bird  of  Paradise,  whose  nest 

Was  never  found  amid  the  bowers  of  earth.* 
Yet  loftier  joys  the  vain  pursuit  may  bring, 

Than  sate  the  senses  with  the  boons  of  time ; 
The  bird  of  Heaven  hath  still  an  upward  wing, 

The  steps  it  lure«  are  still  the  steps  that  climb, 
And  in  the  ascent,  altho"  the  soil  be  bare, 
More  clear  the  daylight  and  more  pure  the  air. 
Let  Petrarch's  heart  the  human  mistress  lose, 
He  mourns  the  Laura,  but  to  win  the  ^luse. 
Could  all  the  charms  which  Georgian  maids  combine 
Delight  the  soul  of  the  daik  Florentine, 
Like  one  chaste  dream  of  childlike  Beatrice 
Awaiting  Hell's  dark  pilgrim  in  the  skies, 
Snatch'd  from  below  to  be  the  guide  above, 
And  clothe  Religion  in  the  form  of  Love  ?  f 

*  According  to  a  belief  in  the  East,  which  is  associated  with  one  of  the  loveliest  and 
most  familiar  of  Oriental  superstitions,  the. bird  of  Paradise  is  never  seen  to  rest  upon  the 
earth — and  its  nest  is  never  to  be  found. 

t  It  is  supposed  by  many  of  the  commentators  on  Dante,  that  in  the  form  of  his  lost 
Beatrice,  who  guides  him  in  his  Vision  of  Heaven,  he  allegorizes  Religious  Faith. 


THE    IDEAL    WORLD.  IX 


III. 

GENIUS,  LIFTING  ITS  LIFE  TO  THE  IDEAL,  BECOMES  ITSELF  A  PURE  IDEA— IT 
MUST  COMPREHEND  ALL  EXISTENCE  :  ALL  HUMAN  SINS  AND  SUFFERINGS — 
HUT  IN  COMPREHENDING,  IT  TRANSMUTES  THEM. — THE  POET  IN  HIS  TWO- 
FOLD BEING — THE  ACTUAL  AND  THE  IDEAL —THE  INFLUENCE  OF  GENIUS 
OVER  THE  STERNEST  REALITIES  OF  EARTH — OVER  OUR  PASSIONS — WARS 
AND  SUPERSTITIONS — ITS  IDENTITY  IS  WITH  HUMAN  PROGRESS — ITS 
AGENCY,  EVEN  WHERE  UNACKNOWLEDGED,  IS  UNIVERSAL. 

O,  thou  tme  Iris  !  sporting  on  the  bow 

Of  tears  and  smiles — Jove's  herald,  Poetry  ! 
Thou  reflex  image  of  all  joy  and  woe — 

Both  fused  in  light  by  thy  dear  phantasy  ! 
Lo  !  from  the  clay  how  Genius  lifts  its  life, 

And  grows  one  pure  Idea — one  calm  soul  ! 
True,  its  own  clearness  must  reflect  our  strife  ; 

True,  its  completeness  must  comprise  our  whole  : 
But  as  the  sun  transmutes  the  sullen  hues 

Of  marsh-grown  vapors  into  vermeil  dyes, 
And  melts  them  later  into  twilight  dews, 

Shedding  on  flowers  the  baptism  of  the  skies  ; 
So  glows  the  Ideal  in  the  air  we  breathe — 

So  fiom  the  fumes  of  sorrow  and  of  sin, 
Doth  its  warm  light  in  rosy  colors  wreathe 

Its  playful  cloudland,  storing  balms  within. 

Survey  the  Poet  in  his  mortal  mould, 
9  Man  amongst  men,  descended  from  his  throne  ! 

The  moth  that  chased  the  star  now  frets  the  fold, 

Our  cares,  our  faults,  our  follies  are  his  own. 
Passions  as  idle,  and  desires  as  vain, 
Vex  the  wild  heart,  and  dupe  the  erring  brain. 
From  Freedom's  field  the  recreant  Horace  flies 
To  kiss  the  hand  by  which  his  country  dies  ; 
From  Mary's  grave  the  mighty  Peasant  turns, 
And  hoarse  wiih  orgies  rings  the  laugh  of  Burns. 
While  Rousseau's  lips  a  lackey's  vices-own — 
Lips  that  could  draw  the  thunder  on  a  throne  ! 
But  when  from  Life  the  Actual  GENIUS  springs, 

When,  self-transform 'd  by  its  own  magic  rod. 
It  snaps  the  fetters  and  expands  the  wings, 

And  drops  the  fleshly  garb  that  veil'd  the  god, 
How  the  mists  vanish  as  the  form  ascends  ! — 
How  in  its  au'eole  every  sunbeam  blends  ! 
By  the  Arch-Brightener  of  Creation  seen, 

How  dim  the  crowns  on  perishable  brows  ! 
The  snows  of  Atlas  melt  beneath  the  sheen, 

Thro'  Thebaid  caves  the  rushing  splendor  flows. 
Cimmerian  glooms  with  Asian  beams  are  bright, 
And  Earth  reposes  in  a  belt  of  light. 
Now  stern  as  Vengeance  shines  the  awful   form, 
Ann'd  with  the  bolt  and  glowing  thro'  the  storm  ; 


12  THE    IDEAL   WORLD. 

Sets  the  great  deeps  of  human  passion  free, 

And  whelms  the  bulwarks  that  would  breast  the  sea 

Roused  by  its  voice  the  ghastly  Wars  arise, 

Mars  reddens  earth,  the  Valkyrs  pale  the  skies ; 

Dim  Superstition  from  her  hell  escapes, 

With  all  her  shadowy  brood  of  monster  shapes  ; 

Here  life  itself  the  scowl  of  Typhon  *  takes  ; 

There  Conscience  shudders  at  Alecto's  snakes  ; 

From  Goth'c  graves  at  midnight  yawning  wide, 

In  gory  cerements  gibbering  specires  glide  ; 

And  where  o'er  blasted  heaths  the  lightnings  flame. 

Black  secret  hags,  "do  deeds  without  a  name  "  ! 

Yet  thro*  its  direst  agencies  of  awe, 

Light  marks  its  presence  and  pervades  its  law, 

And,  like  Orion  when  the  storms  are  loud, 

It  links  creation  while  it  gilds  a  cloud. 

By  ruthless  Thor,  free  Thought,  frank  Honor  stand, 

Fame's  grand  desire,  and  zeal  for  Fatherland. 

The  grim  Religion  of  Barbarian  Fear, 

With  some  Hereafter  still  connects  the  Here, 

Lifts  the  gross  sense  to  some  spiritual  source, 

And  thrones  some  Jove  above  the  Titan  Force, 

Till,  love  completing  what  in  awe  began, 

From  the  rude  savage  dawns  the  thoughtful  man. 

Then,  O  behold  the  glorious  Comforter  ! 

Still  brighi'ning  worlds,  but  gladd'ning  now  the  hearth* 
Or  like  the  lustre  of  our  nearest  star, 

Fused  in  the  common  atmosphere  of  earth. 
It  sports  like  hope  upon  the  captive's  chain  ; 
Descends  in  dreams  upon  the  couch  of  pain ; 
To  wonder's  realm  allures  the  earnest  child  ; 
To  the  chaste  love  refines  the  ins'inct  wild  ; 
And  as  in  waters  the  reflected  beam, 
Still  where  we  turn,  glides  with  us  up  the  stream  ; 
And  while  in  truth  the  whole  expanse  is  bright, 
Yields  to  each  eye  its  own  fond  path  of  light, 
So  over  life  the  rays  of  Genius  fall, 
Give  each  his  track  because  illuming  all. 


IV. 

FORGIVENESS  TO  THE  ERRORS   OF  OUR  BENEFACTORS 

Hence  is  that  secret  pardon  we  bestow 

In  the  true  instinct  of  the  grateful  heart, 
Upon  the  Sons  of  Song.     The  good  they  do 

In  the  clear  world  of  their  Uranian  art 
Endures  forever  ;  while  the  evil  done 

In  the  poor  drama  of  their  mortal  scene, 

*  The  gloomy  Typhon  of  Egypt  assumes  many  of  the  mystic  attributes  of  the  Principle 
of  Life  which,  in  the  Grecian  Apotheosis  of  the  Indian  Bacchus,  is  represented  in  sogeaial 
a  character  of  exuberant  joy  and  everlasting  youth, 


THE   IDEAL    WORLD. 

Is  but  a  passing  cloud  before  the  sun  ; 

Space  hath  no  record  where  the  mist  hath  been. 
Boots  it  to  us,  if  Shakspeare  err'd  like  man  ? 

Why  idly  question  that  most  mystic  life  ? 
Eno'  the  giver  in  his  gifts  lo  scan  ; 

To  bless   the  sheaves  with  which  thy  fields  are  rife, 
Nor,  blundering,  guess  thro'  what  obstiuctive  clay 
The  glorious  corn-seed  struggled  up  to  day. 


V. 

THE  IDEAL  IS  NOT  CONFINED  TO  POETS — ALGERNON  SIDNEY  RECOGNIZES  Hit 
IDEAL  IN  LIBERTY,  AND  BELIEVES  IN  ITS  TRIUMPH  WHERE  THE  MERE 
PRACTICAL  MAN  COULD  BEHOLD  BUT  ITS  RUINS — YET  LIBERTY  IN  THIS 
WORLD  MUST  EVER  BE  AN  IDEAL,  AND  THE  LAND  THAT  IT  PROMISES  CAN 
BE  FOUND  BUT  IN  DEATH. 

But  not  to  you  alone,  O  Sons  of  Song, 
The  wings  that  float  the  loftier  airs  along. 
Whoever  lifts  us  from  the  dust  we  are, 

Beyond  the  sensual  to  spiritual  goals  ; 
Who  from  the  MOMENT  and  the  SELF  afar 

By  deathless  deeds  allures  reluctant  souls, 
Gives  the  warm  life  to  what  the  Limner  draws, 
Plato  but  thought  what  godlike  Cato  was.* 
Recall  the  wars  of  England's  giant-born, 

Is  Elyot's  voice — is  Hampden's death  in  vain? 
Have  all  the  meteors  of  the  vernal  morn 

But  wasted  light  upon  a  frozen  main  ? 
Where  is  that  child  of  Carnage,  Freedom,  flown  ? 
The  Sybarite  lolls  upon  the  Martyr's  throne. 
Lewd,  ribald  jests  succeed  to  solemn  zeal; 
And  things  of  silk  to  Cromwell's  men  of  steel. 
Cold  are  the  hos'ts  the  tromps  of  Ireton  thiill'd 
And  hush'd  the  senates  Vane's  large  presence  fill'd. 
In  what  strong  heart  doth  the  old  manhood  dwell  ? 
Where  art  thou,  Freedom  ? — Look — in  Sidney's  cell ! 
There  still  as  stately  stands  the  living  Truth, 
.  Smiling  on  age  as  it  had  smiled*on  youth. 
Her  forts  dismantled,  and  her  shrines  o'erthrown, 
The  headsman's  block  her  last  dread  altar-stone, 
No  sanction  left  to  Reason's  vulgar  hope — 
Far  from  the  wrecks  expands  her  prophet's  scope. 
Millennial  morns  the  tombs  of  Kedron  gild, 
The  hands  of  saints  the  glorious  walls  rebuild, — 
Till  each  foundation  garnish'd  with  its  gem,       / 
High  o'er  Gehenna  flames  Jerusalem  !  / 

O  thou  blood-stained  Ideal  of  the  free, 

Whose  breath  is  heard  in  clarions-^Liberty  !     \ 

Sublimer  for  thy  grand  illusions  past, 

Thou  spring's!  to  Heaven — Religion  at  the  last. 

*  "  What  Plato  thought,  and  godlike  Cato  was."— Form. 


THE    IDEAL    WORLD. 

Alike  below,  or  commonwealths,  or  thrones, 

Where'er  men  ga  her  some  crush 'd  victim  groans; 

Only  in  death  thy  real  form  we  see, 

All  life  is  bondage — souls  alone  are  free. 

Thus  through  the  waste  the  wandering  Hebrews  wenti 

Fire  on  the  march,  but  cloud  upon  the  tent. 

At  last  on  Pisgah  see  the  prophet  stand, 

Before  his  vision  spreads  the  PROMISED  LAND  ; 

But  where  reveal'd  the  Canaan  to  his  eye  ? — 

Upon  the  mountain  he  ascends  to  die. 


VI. 

VET  ALL  HAVE  TWO  ESCAPES  INTO  THE  IDEAL  WORLD — VIZ.,  MEMORY  AND 
HOPE — EXAMPLE  OF  HOPE  IN  YOUTH,  HOWEVER  EXCLUDED  FROM  ACTION 
AND  DESIRE — NAPOLEON'S  SON. 

Yet  whatsoever  be  our  bondage  here, 
All  have  two  portals  to  the  Phantom  sphere, — 
Who  hath  not  glided  through  those  gates  that  ope, 
Beyond  the  Hour,  to  MEMORY  or  to  HOPE  ! 
Give  Youth  the  Garden — still  it  soars.above — 
Seeks  some  far  glory — some  diviner  love. 
Place  Age  amidst  the  Golgotha — its  eyes 
Still  quit  the  graves,  co  rest  upon  the  skies  ; 
And  while  the  dust,  unheeded,  moulders  there, 
Track  some  lost  angel  through  cerulean  air. 

Lo  !  where  the  Austrian  binds,  with  formal  chain, 
The  crownless  son  of  Earth's  last  Charlemain — 
Him,  nt  whose  birth  laugh'd  all  the  violet  vales 

(While  yet  unfallen  stood  thy  sovereign  star, 
O  Lucifer  of  Nations) — hark,  the  gales 

Swell  with  the  shout  from  all  the  hosts,  whose  war 
Rended  the  Alps,  and  crimson'd  Memphian  Nile — 

"  Way  for  the  coming  of  the  Conqueror's  Son  : 
Woe  to  the  Merchant-Carthage  of  the  Isle  ! 

Woe  to  the  Scythian  Ice-world  of  the  Don  ! 
O  Thunder  Lord,  thy  Lemnian  bolts  prepare, 
The  Eagle's  eyiie  hath  its  eagle  heir  !  " 
Hark,  at  that  shout  from  north  to  south,  gray  Power 

Quails  on  its  weak,  hereditary  thrones  ; 
And  widowed  mothers  prophesy  the  hour 

Of  future  carnage  to  their  cradled  sons. 
What  !  shall  our  race  to  blood  be  thus  consign 'd, 
And  Ate  claim  an  heirloom  in  mankind  ? 
Are  these  red  lots  unshaken  in  the  urn  ? 
Years  pass — approach,  pale  Questioner — and  learn  j 
Chain'd  to  his  rock,  with  brows  that  vainly  frown, 
The  fallen  Titan  sinks  in  darkness  down  ! 
And  sadly  gazing  through  his  gilded  grate, 
Behold  the  child  whose  birth  was  as  a  fate  ! 


THE    IDEAL    WORLD. 

• 

Far  from  the  land  in  which  his  life  began  ; 
Wall'd  from  the  healthful  a:r  of  hardy  man  ; 
Rear'd  by  cold  hearts,  and  watch'd  by  jealous  eyes, 
His  guardians  gaolers,  and  his  comrades  spies. 
Each  trite  convention  courtly  fears  inspire 
To  stint  experience  and  to  dwarf  desire  ; 
Narrows  the  action  to  a  puppet  stage, 
And  trains  the  eaglet  to  the  starling's  cage. 
On  the  dejected  brow  and  smileless  cheek, 
What  weary  thought  the  languid  lines  bespeak : 
Till  drop  by  drop,  from  jaded  day  to  day, 
The  sickly  life-streams  oo/e  themselves  away. 

Yet  oft  in  HOPE  a  boundless  realm  was  thine, 
That  vaguest  Infinite — the  Dream  of  Fame  ; 

Sou  of  the  sword  that  first  made  kings  divine, 

Heir  to  man's  grandest  royalty — a  Name  ! 
Then  didst  thou  burst  upon  the  startled  world, 

And  keep  the  glorious  promise  of  thy  birth  ; 
Then  were  the  wings  that  bear  the  bolt  unfurl'd, 

A  monarch's  voice  cried,  ' '  Place  upon  the  Earth  !  " 
A  new  Philippi  gain'd  a  second  Rome, 
And  the  Son's  sword  avenged  the  greater  Caesar's  doom. 


VII. 

EXAMPLE  OF   MEMORY  AS  LEADING  TO  THE  IDEAL — AMIDST  LIFE  HOWEVER 
HUMBLE,  AND  IN  A  MIND   HOWEVER  IGNORANT — THE  VILLAGE  WIDOW. 

But  turn  the  eye  to  Life's  sequester'd  vale, 

And  lowly  roofs  remote  in  hamlets  green, 
Oft  in  my  boyhood  where  the  moss-grown  pale 

Fenced  quiet  graves,  a  female  form  was  seen  ; 
Each  eve  she  sought  the  melancholy  ground, 
And  lingering  paused,  and  wistful  look'd  around 
If  yet  some  footstep  rustled  thro'  the  grass. 
Timorous  she  shrunk,  and  watch'd  the  shadow  pass. 
Then,  when  the  spot  lay  lone  amidst  the  gloom, 
Crept  to  one  grave  too  humble  for  a  tomb, 
There  silent  bowed  her  face  above  the  dead, 
For,  if  in  prayer,  the  prayer  was  inly  said  ; 
Still  as  the  moonbeam,  paused  her  quiet  shade, 
Still  as  the  moonbeam,  thro'  the  yews  to  fade. 
Whose  dust  thus  hallowed  by  so  fond  a  care  ? 
What  the  grave  saith  not — let  the  heart  declare. 

On  yonder  green  two  orphan  children  play'd  ; 
By  yonder  rill  two  plighted  lovers  stray 'd. 
In  yonder  shrine  two  lives  were  blent  in  one, 
And  joy  bells  chimed  beneath  a  summer  sun. 
Poor  was  their  lot — their  bread  in  labor  found  ; 
No  parent  bless'd  them,,  and  no  kindred  own'd  ; 
They  smiled  to  hear  the  wise  their  choice  condemn  ; 
They  loved — they  loved — and  love  was  wealth  to  them  ! 


THE    IDEAL    WORLD. 

Hark — one  short  week — aga:n  the  holy  bell  ! 

Still  shone  the  sun  ;  but  dirge-like  boom'd  the  knell 

The  icy  hand  had  severed  brr ast  from  breast ; 

Left  life  to  toil,  and  summon'd  Deaih  to  rest. 

Full  fifty  years  since  then  have  pass'd  away. 

Her  cheek  is  furrow 'd,  and  her  hair  is  gray. 

Yet,  when  she  speaks  of  him  (the  times  are  rare) 

Hear  in  her  voice  how  youth  still  trembles  there  ! 

The  very  name  of  that  young  life  that  died, 

Still  heaves  the  bosom,  and  recalls  the  bride. 

Lone  o'er  the  widow's  hearth  those  years  have  fled, 

The  daily  toil  still  wins  the  daily  bread  ; 

No  books  deck  sorrow  with  fantastic  dyes  : 

Her  fond  romance  her  woman  heart  supplies  ; 

And,  haply  in  the  few  still  moments  given 

(Day's  taskwork  done) — to  memory,  death,  and  heaven. 

To  that  unutter'd  poem  may  belong 

Thoughts  of  such  pathos  as  had  beggar'd  song. 


VIII. 

HENCE  IN  HOPE,  MEMORY,  AND  PRAYER,  ALL  OF  US  ARE  POETS. 

Yes,  while  thou  hopest,  music  fills  the  air, 

While  thou  rememberest,  life  reclothes  the  clod  ; 
While  thou  canst  feel  the  elec  ric  chain  of  prayer, 

Breathe  but  a  thought,  and  be  a  soul  with  God  ! 
Let  not  these  forms  of  matter  bound  thine  eye,        j 

He  who  the  vanishing  point  of  Human  things 
Lifts  from  the  landscape — lost  amidst  the  sky, 

Has  found  the  Ideal  which  the  poet  sings — 
Has  pierced  the  pall  around  the  senses  thrown, 
And  is  him- elf  a  poet — tho'  unknown. 


IX. 

APPLICATION  OF  THE  POEM  TO  THE  TALE  TO  WHICH  IT  IS  PREFIXED. — THE 
RHINE — ITS  IDEAL  CHARACTER  IN  ITS  HISTORICAL  AND  LEGENDARY 
ASSOCIATIONS. 

Eno'  ! — my  song  is  closing,  and  to  thee, 

Land  of  the  North,  1  dedicate  its  lay  ; 
As  I  have  done  the  simple  tale  to  be 

The  drama  of  this  prelude  ! — 

Far  away 

Rolls  the  swift  Rhine  beneath  the  starry  ray  ; 
But  to  my  ear  its  haunted  waters  sigh  ; 
Its  moonlit  mountains  glimmer  on  my  eye; 
On  wave,  on  marge,  as  on  a  wizard's  glass, 
Imperial  ghosts  in  dim  procession  pass  ; 
Lords  of  the  wild — the  first  great  Father-men, 
Their  fane  the  hill- top— and  their  home  the  glen  ; 


THE    IDEAL    WORLD.  17 

Frowning  they  fade — a  bridge  of  s'eel  appears 
With  frank-eyed  Caesar  smiling  thro"  the  spears  ; 
The  march  moves  onwards,  and  the  mirror  brings 
The  Gothic  crowns  of  Carlovingian  kings  : 
Vanish'd  alike  !     The  Hermit  rears  his  Cross, 
And  barbs  ne:gh  shrill,  and  plumes  in  tumult  toss, 
While  (knighthood's  sole  sweet  conquest  from  the  Moor) 
Sings  to  Arabian  lutes  the  Troubadour. 

Not  yet,  not  yet — still  glide  some  lingering  shades — 
Still  breathe  some  murmurs  as  the  starlight  fades — 
Still  from. her  rock  I  hear  the  Siren  call, 
And  see  the  tender  ghost  in  Roland's  mouldering  hall ! 


X. 

APPLICATION  OF  THE  POEM  CONTINUED — THE  IDEAL  LENDS  ITS  AID  TO  THE 
MOST  FAMILIAR  AND  THE  MOST  ACTUAL  SORROW  OF  LIFE — FICTION 
COMPARED  TO  SLEEP — IT  STRENGTHENS  WHILE  IT  SOOTHES. 

Trite  were  the  tale  I  tell  of  love  and  doom 

(Whose  life  hath  loved  not,  whose  not  mourn'd  a  tomb  ?) 

But  fiction  draws  a  poetry  from  grief, 

As  art  its  healing  from  the  wither'd  leaf. 

Play  thou,  sweet  Fancy,  round  the  sombre  truth. 

Crown  ihe  sad  Genius  ere  it  lower  the  torch  ! 
When  death  the  altar,  and  the  victim  youth, 

Flutes  fill  the  air,  and  garlands  deck  the  porch. 
As  down  the  river  drifts  the  Pilgrim  sail, 
Clothe  the  rude  hill-tops,  lull  the  Northern  gale  ; 
With  child-like  lore  the  fatal  course  beguile, 
And  brighten  death  with  Love's  untiring  smile, 
Along  the  banks  let  fairy  forms  be  seen 
"  By  fountain  clear,  or  spangled  starlight  sheen."* 
Let  sound  and  shape  to  which  the  sense  is  dull, 
Haunt  the  soul  opening  on  the  Beautiful. 
And  when  at  length,  the  symbol  voyage  done, — 
Surviving  Grief  shrinks  lonely  from  the  sun, 
By  tender  types  show  Grief  what  memories  bloom 
From  lost  delight — what  fairies  guard  the  tomb.  „ 

Scorn  not  the  dream,  O  world-worn — pause  awhile, 
New  strength  shall  nerve  thee  as  the  dreams  beguile,       ~ 
Strung  by  the  rest — less  far  shall  seem  the  goal  1  < 

As  sleep  to  life,  so  fiction  to  the  soul. 

*  "  Midsummer  Night's  Dr«*m." 


THE 

PILGRIMS  OF  THE  RHINE 


CHAPTER  I. 

IN   WHICH    THE    READER   IS   INTRODUCED    TO   QUEEH 
NYMPHALIN. 

IN  one  of  those  green  woods  which  belong  so  peculiar!/  to 
our  island  (for  the  Continent  has  its  forests,  but  England  it« 
woods),  there  lived,  a  short  time  ago,  a  charming  little  fairy 
called  Nymphalin.  I  believe  she  is  descended  from  a  younger 
branch  of  the  house  of  Mab,  but  perhaps  that  may  only  be  a 
genealogical  fable,  for  your  fairies  are  very  susceptible  to  the 
pride  of  ancestry,  and  it  is  impossible  to  deny  that  they  fall 
somewhat  reluctantly  into  the  liberal  opinions  so  much  in 
vogue  at  the  present  day. 

However  that  may  be,  it  is  quite  certain  that  all  the  courtiers 
in  Nymphalin's  domain  (for  she  was  a  queen  fairy)  made  a 
point  of  asserting  her  right  to  this  illustrous  descent ;  and, 
accordingly,  she  quartered  the  Mab  arms  with  her  own — three 
acorns  vert,  with  a  grasshopper  rampant.  It  was  as  merry  a 
little  court  as  could  possibly  be  conceived,  and  on  a  fine  mid- 
summer night  it  would  have  been  worth  while  attending  the 
queen's  balls — that  is  to  say,  if  you  could  have  got  a  ticket  ;  a 
favor  not  obtained  without  great  interest. 

But,  unhappily,  until  both  men  and  fairies  adopt  Mr.  Owen's 
proposition,  and  live  in  parallelograms,  they  will  always  be  the 
victims  of  ennui.  And  Nymphalin,  who  had  been  disappointed 
in  love,  and  was  still  unmarried,  had  for  the  last  five  or  six 
months  been  exceedingly  tired  even  of  giving  balls.  She 
.yawned  very  frequently,  and  consequently  yawning  became  a 
fashion. 

"  But  why  don't  we  have  some  new  dances,  my  Pipalee  ?  " 


2O  THE    PILGRIMS   OF    THE   RHINE. 

said  Nymphalin  to  her  favorite  maid  of  honor J  "  these  walzes 
are  very  old-fashioned." 

"  Very  old-fashioned,"  said  Pipalee. 

The  queen  gaped,  and  Pipalee  did  the  same. 

It  was  a  gala  night ;  the  court  was  held  in  a  lone  and  beau- 
tiful hollow,  with  the  wild  brake  closing  round  it  on  every 
side,  so  that  no  human  step  could  easily  gain  the  spot.  Wher- 
ever the  shadows  fell  upon  the  brake,  a  glow-worm  made  a 
point  of  exhibiting  itself,  and  the  bright  August  moon  sailed 
slowly  above,  pleased  to  look  down  on  so  charming  a  scene  of 
merriment ;  for  they  wrong  the  moon  who  assert  that  she  has 
an  objection  to  mirth  ;  with  the  mirth  of  fairies  she  has  all 
possible  sympathy.  Here  and  there  in  the  thicket  the  scarce 
honeysuckles — in  August,  honeysuckles  are  somewhat  out  of 
season — hung  their  rich  festoons,  and  at  that  moment  they 
were  crowded  with  the  elderly  fairies,  who  had  given  up  danc- 
ing and  taken  to  scandal.  Besides  the  honeysuckle  you  might 
see  the  hawkweed  and  the  white  convolvulus,  varying  the  soft 
verdure  of  the  thicket ;  and  mushrooms  in  abundance  had 
sprung  up  in  the  circle,  glittering  in  the  silver  moonlight,  and 
acceptable  beyond  measure  to  the  dancers  :  every  one  knows 
how  agreeable  a  thing  tents  are  in  a  fete  champetre  !  I  was 
mistaken  in  saying  that  the  brake  closed  the  circle  entirely 
round  ;  for  there  was  one  gap,  scarcely  apparent  to  mortals, 
through  which  a  fairy  at  least  might  catch  a  view  of  a  brook 
that  was  close  at  hand,  rippling  in  the  stars,  and  checkered  at 
intervals  by  the  rich  weeds  floating  on  the  surface,  interspersed 
with  th"e  delicate  arrowhead  and  the  silver  water-lily.  Then 
the  trees  themselves,  in  their  prodigal  variety  of  hues  ;  the 
blue,  the  purple,  the  yellowing  tint — the  tender  and  silvery 
verdure,  and  the  d«ep  mass  of  shade  frowning  into  black  ;  the 
willow,  the  elm,  the  ash,  the  fir,  the  .lime,  "  and,  best  of  all, 
Old  England's  haunted  oak  ";  these  hues  were  broken  again 
into  a  thousand  minor  and  subtler  shades,  as  the  twinkling 
stars  pierced  the  foliage,  or  the  moon  slept  with  a  richer  light 
upon  some  favored  glade. 

It  was  a  gala  night ;  the  elderly  fairies,  as  I  said  before, 
were  chatting  among  the  honeysuckles  ;  the  young  were  flirt- 
ing, and  dancing,  and  making  love;  the  middle-aged  talked 
politics  under  the  mushrooms  ;  and  the  queen  herself,  and 
half  a  dozen  of  her  favorites,  were  yawning  their  pleasure  froitt 
a  little  mound,  covered  with  the  thickest  moss. 

"  It  has  been  very  dull,  madam,  ever  since  Prince  Fayzef 
heim  left  us,"  said  the  fairy  Nip. 


THE    PILGRIMS    OF    THE    RHINE.  2t 

The  queen  sighed. 

"  How  handsome  the  prince  is  !  "  said  Pipalee. 

The  queen  blushed. 

"He  wore  the  prettiest  dress  in  the  world  ;  and  what  a 
mustache !  "  cried  Pipalee,  fanning  herself  with  her  left  wing. 

"  He  was  a  coxcomb,"  said  the  lord  treasurer  sourly.  The 
lord  treasurer  was  the  honestest  and  most  disagreeable  fairy 
at  court ;  he  was  an  admirable  husband,  brother,  son,  cousin, 
uncle,  and  godfather  ;  it  was  these  virtues  that  had  made  him 
a  lord  treasurer.  Unfortunately  they  had  not  made  him  a 
sensible  fairy.  He  was  like  Charles  the  Second  in  one  respect, 
for  he  never  did  a  wise  thing  ;  but  he  was  not  like  him  in  an- 
other, for  he  very  often  said  a  foolish  one. 

The  queen  frowned. 

"  A  young  prince  is  not  the  worse  for  that,"  retorted  Pipa- 
lee. "  Heigho !  does  your  majesty  think  his  highness  likely 
to  return  ? " 

"  Don't  tease  me,"  said  Nymphalin  pettishly. 

The  lord  treasurer,  by  way  of  giving  the  conversation  an 
agreeable  turn,  reminded  her  majesty  that  there  was  a  pro- 
digious accumulation  of  business  to  see  to,  especially  that 
difficult  affair  about  the  emmet-wasp  loan.  Her  majesty  rose, 
and  leaning  on  Pipalee's  arm,  walked  down  to  the  supper- 
tent. 

"  Pray,"  said  the  fairy  Trip  to  the  fairy  Nip,  "  what  is  all 
this  talk  about  Prince  Fayzenheim  ?  Excuse  my  ignorance  ; 
I  am  only  just  out,  you  know." 

"  Why,"  answered  Nip,  a  young  courtier,  not  a  marrying 
fairy,  but  very  seductive,  "  the  story  runs  thus  :  Last  Summer 
a  foreigner  visited  us,  calling  himself  Prince  Fayzenheim  ;  one 
of  your  German  fairies,  I  fancy  ;  no  great  things,  but  an  ex- 
cellent waltzer.  He  wore  long  spurs,  made  out  of  the  stings 
of  the  horse-flies  in  the  Black  Forest ;  his  cap  sat  on  one  side, 
and  his  mustachios  curled  like  the  lip  of  the  dragon- flower. 
He  was  on  his  travels,  and  amused  himself  by  making  love  to 
the  queen.  You  can't  fancy,  dear  Trip,  how  fond  she  was  of 
hearing  him  tell  stories  about  the  strange  creatures  of  Ger- 
many— about  wild  huntsmen,  water-sprites,  and  a  pack  of  such 
stuff,"  added  Nip  contemptuously,  for  Nip  was  a  free-thinker. 

"  In  short?  "  said  Trip. 

"  In  short,  she  loved,"  cried  Nip,  with  a  theatrical  air. 

"  And  the  prince  ?  " 

'•  Packed  up  his  clothes,  and  sent  on  his  travelling-carriage, 
jn  order  that  he  might  go  at  his  ease  Qn  the  top  of  a 


21  THE    PILGRIMS    OF    THE    RHINE. 

pigeon  ;  in  short — as  you  say — in  short,  he  deserted  the  queen, 
and  ever  since  she  has  set  the  fashion  of  yawning." 

"  It  was  very  naughty  in  him,"  said  the  gentle  Trip. 

"Ah,  my  dear  creature,"  cried  Nip,  "if  it  had  been  you  to 
whom  he  had  paid  his  addresses  !  " 

Trip  simpered,  and  the  old  fairies  from  their  seats  in  the 
honeysuckles  observed  she  was  "  sadly  conducted  ";  but  the 
Trips  had  never  been  too  respectable. 

Meanwhile  the  queen,  leaning  On  Pipalee,  said,  after  a  short 
pause  :  "  Do  you  know  I  have  formed  a  plan  !  " 

"  How  delightful  !  "  cried  Pipalee.     "  Another  gala  !  " 

"  Pooh,  surely  even  you  must  be  tired  with  such  levities  : 
the  spirit  of  the  age  is  no  longer  frivolous ;  and  I  dare  say  as 
the  march  of  gravity  proceeds,  we  shall  get  rid  of  galas  alto- 
gether." The  queen  said  this  with  an  air  of  unconceivable 
wisdom,  for  the  "  Society  for  the  Diffusion  of  General  Stupe- 
faction "  had  been  recently  established  among  the  fairies,  and 
its  tracts  had  driven  all  the  light  reading  out  of  the  market. 
•'The  Penny  Proser  "  had  contributed  greatly  to  the  increase 
of  knowledge  and  yawning,  so  visibly  progressive  among  the 
courtiers. 

"  No,"  continued  Nymphalin  ;  "  I  have  thought  of  something 
better  than  galas.  Let  us  travel  !  " 

Pipalee  clasped  her  hands  in  ecstasy. 

"  Where  shall  we  travel  ?  " 

"  Let  us  go  up  the  Rhine,"  said  the  queen,  turning  away  her 
head.  "  We  shall  be  amazingly  welcomed  ;  there  are  fairies 
without  number,  all  the  way  by  its  banks  ;  and  various  distant 
connections  of  ours,  whose  nature  and  properties  will  afford 
interest  and  instruction  to  a  philosophical  mind." 

"  Number  Nip,  for  instance,"  cried  the  gay  Pipalee. 

"  The  Red  Man  !  "  said  the  graver  Nymphalin. 
.  "  O  my  queen,  what  an  excellent  scheme  !  "  and  Pipalee  was 
so  lively  during  the  rest  of  the  night,  that  the  old  fairies  in  the 
honeysuckle   insinuated  that  the  lady  of  honor  had  drunk  a 
buttercup  too  much  of  the  Maydew. 


CHAPTER   II. 

THE    LOVERS. 

I  WISH  only  for  such  readers  as  give  themselves  heart  and 
soul  up  to  me  ;  if  they  begin  to  cavil  I  have  done  with  them  ; 
their  fancy  should  put  itself  entirely  under  my  management  j 


THE    PILGRIMS    OF    THE    RHINE.  2$ 

and,  after  all,  ought  they  not  to  be  too  glad  to  get  out  of  this 
hackneyed  and  melancholy  world,  to  be  run  away  with  by  an 
author  who  promises  them  something  new  ? 

From  the  heights  of  Bruges  a  Mortal  and  his  betrothed 
gazed  upon  the  scene  below.  They  saw  the  sun  set  slowly 
amongst  purple  masses  of  cloud,  and  the  lover  turned  to  his 
mistress  and  sighed  deeply  ;  for  her  cheek  was  delicate  in  its 
blended  roses,  beyond  the  beauty  lhat  belongs  to  the  hues  of 
health  ;  and  when  he  saw  the  sun  sinking  from  the  world,  the 
thought  came  upon  him,  that  she  was  his  sun,  and  the  glory 
that  she  slied  over  his  life  might  soon  pass  away  into  the  bosom 
of  the  "everduring  Dark."  But  against  the  clouds  rose  one 
of  the  many  spires  that  characterize  the  town  of  Bruges  ;  and 
on  that  spire,  tapering  into  heaven,  rested  the  eyes  of  Ger- 
trude Vane.  The  different  objects  that  caught  the  gaze  of 
each  was  emblematic  both  of  the  different  channel  of  their 
thoughts,  and  the  different  elements  of  their  nature :  he 
thought  of  the  sorrow,  she  of  the  consolation  :  his  heart 
prophesied  of  the  passing  away  from  earth,  hers  of  the  ascen- 
sion into  heaven.  The  lowei  part  of  the  landscape  was  wrapt 
in  shade  ;  but,  just  where  the  bank  curved  round  in  a  mimic 
bay,  the  waters  caught  the  sun's  parting  smile,  and  rippled 
against  the  herbage  that  clothed  the  shore,  with  a  scarcely 
noticeable  wave.  There  were  two  of  the  numerous  mills  which 
are  so  picturesque  a  feature  of  that  country,  standing  at  a  dis- 
tance from  each  other  on  the  rising  banks,  their  sails  perfectly 
still  in  the  cool  silence  of  the  evening,  and  adding  to  the  rustic 
tranquillity  which  breathed  around.  For  to  me  there  is  some- 
thing in  the  stilled  sails  of  one  of  those  inventions  of  man's 
industry  peculiarly  eloquent  of  repose  :  the  rest  seems  typical 
of  the  repose  of  our  own  passions,  short  and  uncertain,  con- 
trary to  their  natural  ordination  ;  and  doubly  impressive  from 
the  feeling  which  admonishes  us  how  precarious  is  the  still- 
ness ;  how  utterly  dependent  on  every  wind  rising  at  any 
moment  and  from  any  quarter  of  the  heavens  !  They  saw  be- 
fore them  no  living  forms,  save  of  one  or  two  peasants  yet  lin- 
gering by  the  water-side. 

Trevylyan  drew  closer  to  his  Gertrude  ;  for  his  love  was  in- 
expre^ssibly  tender,  and  his  vigilant  anxiety  for  her  made  his 
stern  frame  feel  the  first  coolness  of  the  evening,  even  before 
she  felt  it  herself. 

"  Dearest,  let  me  draw  your  mantle  closer  round  you."' 

Gertrude  smiled  her  thanks. 

"  I  feel  better  than  I  have  done  for  weeks,"  said  she  ;  "  and 


24  THE    PILGRIMS   OF    THE    RHINE. 

when  once  we  get  into  the  Rhine,  you  will  see  me  grow  so 
strong  as  to  shock  all  your  interest  for  me." 

"Ah,  would  to  Heaven  my -interest  for  you  may  be  put  to 
such  an  ordeal  !  "  said  Trevylyan  ;  and  they  turned  slowly  to 
the  inn,  where  Gertrude's  father  already  awaited  them. 

Trevylyan  was  of  a  wild,  a  resolute,  and  an  active  nature. 
Thrown  on  the  world  at  the  age  of  sixteen,  he  had  passed  his 
youth  in  alternate  pleasure,  travel,  and  solitary  study.  At  the 
age  in  which  manhood  is  least  susceptible  to  caprice,  and 
most  perhaps  to  passion,  he  fell  in  love  with  the  loveliest  person 
that  ever  dawned  upon  a  poet's  vision.  I  say  thi&  without 
exaggeration,  for  Gertrude  Vane's  was  indeed  the  beauty,  but 
the  perishable  beauty,  of  a  dream.  It  happened  most  sin- 
gularly to  Trevylyan  (but  he  was  a  singular  man),  that  being 
naturally  one  whose  affections  it  was  very  difficult  to  excite, 
he  should  have  fallen  in  love  at  first  sight  with  a  person  whose 
disease,  already  declared,  would  have  deterred  any  other  heart 
from  risking  its  treasures  on  a  bark  so  utterly  unfitted  for  the 
voyage  of  life.  Consumption,  but  consumption  in  its  most 
beautiful  shape,  had  set  its  seal  upon  Gertrude  Vane  when 
Trevylyan  first  saw  her,  and  at  once  loved.  He  knew  the 
danger  of  the  disease ;  he  did  not,  except  at  intervals,  deceive 
himself  ;  he  wrestled  against  the  new  passion  :  but,  stern  as 
his  nature  was,  he  could  not  conquer  it.  He  loved,  he  con- 
fessed his  love,  and  Gertrude  returned  it. 

In  a  love  like  this,  there  is  something  ineffably  beautiful  :  it 
is  essentially  the  poetry  of  passion.  Desire  grows  hallowed 
by  fear,  and,  scarce  permitted  to  indulge  its  vent  in  the 
common  channel  of  the  senses,  breaks  forth  into  those  vague 
yearnings,  those  lofty  aspirations,  which  pine  for  the  Bright, 
the  Far,  the  Unattained.  It  is  "  the  desire  of  the  moth  for 
the  star '';  it  is  the  love  of  the  soul ! 

Gertrude  was  advised  by  the  Faculty  to  try  a  southern 
climate  ;  but  Gertrude  was  the  daughter  of  a  German  mother, 
and  her  young  fancy  had  been  nursed  in  all  the  wild  legends 
and  the  alluring  visions  that  belong  to  the  children  of  the 
Rhine.  Her  imagination,  more  romantic  than  classic,  yearned 
for  the  vine-clad  hills  and  haunted  forests,  which  are  so  fertile 
in  their  spells  to  those  who  have  once  drunk,  even  sparingly, 
of  the  Literature  of  the  North.  Her  desire  strongly  expressed 
her  declared  conviction,  that  if  any  change  of  scene  could  yet 
arrest  the  progress  of  her  malady,  it  would  be  the  shores  of 
the  river  she  had  so  longed  to  visit,  prevailed  with  her 
physicians  and  her  father,  and  they,  consented  to  that  pilgrim- 


tHE   PtLGRtMS   OF   THE   kHtNE.  fit} 

age  along  the  Rhine  on  which  Gertrude,  her  father,  and  her 
lover  were  now  bound. 

It  was  by  the  green  curve  of  the  banks  which  the  lovers  saw 
from  the  heights  of  Bruges,  that  our  fairy  travellers  met. 
They  were  reclining  on  the  water-side,  playing  at  dominos 
with  eyebright  and  the  black  specks  of  the  trefoil ;  viz., 
Pipalee,  Nip,  Trip,  and  the  lord  treasurer  (for  that  was  all  the 
party  selected  by  the  queen  for  her  travelling  cortege],  and 
waiting  for  her  majesty,  who,  being  a  curious  little  elf,  had 
gone  round  the  town  to  reconnoitre. 

"  Bless  me  !  "  said  the  lord  treasurer  ;  "  what  a  mad  freak  is 
this  !  Crossing  that  immense  pond  of  water  !  And  was  there 
ever  such  bad  grass  as  this  ?  One  may  see  that  the  fairies 
thrive  ill  here." 

"  You  are  always  discontented,  my  lord,"  said  Pipalee  ;  but 
then  you  are  somewhat  too  old  to  travel — at  least,  unless  you 
go  in  your  nutshell  and  four." 

The  lord  treasurer  did  not  like  this  remark,  so  he  muttered 
a  peevish  pshaw,  and  took  a  pinch  of  honeysuckle  dust  to 
console  himself  for  being  forced  to  put  up  with  so  much 
frivolity. 

At  this  moment,  ere  the  moon  was  yet  at  her  middest  height, 
Nymphalin  joined  her  subjects. 

"  I  have  just  returned,"  said  she,  with  a  melancholy  ex- 
pression on  her  countenance,  "  from  a  scene  that  has  almost 
renewed  in  me  that  sympathy  with  human  beings  which  of  late 
years  our  race  has  well-nigh  relinquished. 

"  I  hurried  through  the  town  without  noticing  much  food 
for  adventure.  I  paused  for  a  moment  on  a  fat  citizen's 
pillow,  and  bade  him  dream  of  love.  He  woke  in  a  fright, 
and  ran  down  to  see  that  his  cheeses  were  safe.  I  swept 
with  a  light  wing  over  a  politician's  eyes,  and  straightway  he 
dreamed  of  theatres  and  music.  I  caught  an  undertaker  in 
his  first  nap,  and  I  have  left  him  whirled  into  a  waltz.  For 
what  would  be  sleep  if  it'  did  not  contrast  life  ?  Then  I  came 
to  a  solitary  chamber,  in  which  a  girl,  in  her  tenderest  youth, 
knelt  by  the  bedside  in  prayer,  and  I  saw  that  the  death-spirit 
had  passed  over  her,  and  the  blight  was  on  the  leaves  of  the 
rose.  The  room  was  still  and  hushed — the  angel  of  Purity 
kept  watch  there.  Her  heart  was  full  of  love,  and  yet  of  holy 
thoughts,  and  I  bade  her  dream  of  the  long  life  denied  to  her, 
of  a  happy  home,  of  the  kisses  of  her  young  lover,  of  eternal 
faith,  and  unwaning  tenderness.  Let  her  at  least  enjoy  in 
dreams  what  Fate  has  refused  to  Truth  !  And,  passing  from 


26  THE  fiLGkiMs  OF  THE  RHINE. 

the  room,  I  found  her  lover  stretched  in  his  cloak  beside  the 
door  ;  for  he  reads  with  a  feverish  and  desperate  prophecy 
the  doom  that  waits  her  ;  and  so  loves  he  the  very  air  she 
breathes,  the  very  ground  she  treads,  that  when  she  has  left 
his  sight  he  creeps,  silently  and  unknown  to  her,  to  the  nearest 
spot  hallowed  by  her  presence,  anxious  that  while  yet  she  is 
on  earth  not  an  hour,  not  a  moment,  should  be  wasted  upon 
other  thoughts  than  those  that  belong  to  her  ;  and  feeling  a 
security,  a  fearful  joy,  in  lessening  the  distance  that  now  only 
momentarily  divides  them.  And  that  love  seemed  to  me  not 
as  the  love  of  the  common  world,  and  I  stayed  my  wings  and 
looked  upon  it  as  a  thing  that  centuries  might  pass  and  bring 
no  parallel  to,  in  its  beauty  and  its  melancholy  truth.  But  I 
kept  away  the  sleep  from  the  lover's  eyes,  for  well  I  knew  that 
sleep  was  a  tyrant,  that  shortened  the  brief  time  of  waking 
tenderness  for  the  living,  yet  spared  him ;  and  one  sad, 
anxious  thought  of  her  was  sweeter,  in  spite  of  its  sorrow, 
than  the  brightest  of  fairy  dreams.  So  I  left  him  awake,  and 
watching  there  through  the  long  night,  and  felt  that  the 
children  of  earth  have  still  something  that  unites  them  to  the 
spirits  of  a  finer  race,  so  long  as  they  retain  amongst  them  the 
presence  of  real  love  !  " 

And  oh  !  Is  there  not  a  truth  also  in  our  fictions  of  the 
Unseen  World  ?  Are  there  not  yet  bright  lingerers  by  the 
forest  and  the  stream  ?  Do  the  moon  and  the  soft  stars  look 
out  on  no  delicate  and  winged  forms  bathing  in  their  light  ? 
Are  the  fairies,  and  the  invisible  hosts,  but  the  children  of  our 
dreams;  and  not  their  inspiration?  Is 'that  all  a  delusion 
which  speaks  from  the  golden  page?  And  is  the  world  only 
given  to  harsh  and  anxious  travellers,  that  walk  to  and  fro  in 
pursuit  of  no  gentle  shadows?  Are  the  chimeras  of  the 
passions  the  sole  spirits  of  the  universe  !  No !  While  my 
remembrance  treasures  in  its  deepest  cell  the  image  of  one  no 
more — one  who  was  "  not  of  the  earth,  earthy  " — one  in  whom 
love  was  the  essence  of  thoughts  divine — one  whose  shape  and 
mould,  whose  heart  and  genius,  would,  had  Poesy  never  before 
have  dreamed  it,  have  called  forth  the  first  notion  of  spirits 
resembling  mortals,  but  not  of  them — no,  Gertrude !  while  I 
remember  you,  the  faith,  the  trust  in  brighter  shapes  and 
fairer  natures  than  the  world  knows  of,  comes  clinging  to  my 
heart ;  and  still  will  I  think  that  Ferries  might  have  watched 
over  your  sleep,  and  Spirits  have  ministered  to  your  dreams. 


THE   PILGRIMS   OF   THE   RHINE.  5) 

CHAPTER  III. 

FEELINGS. 

GERTRUDE  and  her  companions  proceeded  by  slow  and,  to 
her,  delightful  stages,  to  Rotterdam.  Trevylyan  sat  by  her 
side,  and  her  hand  was  ever  in  his  ;  and  when  her  delicate 
frame  became  sensible  of  fatigue,  her  head  drooped  on  his 
shoulder  as  its  natural  resting-place.  Her  father  was  a  man 
who  had  lived  long  enough  to  have  encountered  many  reverses 
of  fortune,  and  they  had  left  him,  as  I  am  apt  to  believe  long 
adversity  usually  does  leave  its  prey,  somewhat  chilled  and 
somewhat  hardened  to  affection  ;  passive  and  quiet  of  hope, 
reigned  to  the  worst  as  to  the  common  order  of  events,  and  ex- 
pecting little  from  the  best,  as  an  unlooked-for  incident  in  the 
regularity  of  human  afflictions.  He  was  insensible  of  his 
daughter's  danger,  for  he  was  not  one  whom  the  fear  of  love 
endows  with  prophetic  vision  ;  and  he  lived  tranquilly  in  the 
present,  without  asking  what  new  misfortune  awaited  him  in 
the  future.  Yet  he  loved  his  child,  his  only  child,  with  what- 
ever of  affection  was  left  him  by  the  many  shocks  his  heart 
had  received  ;  and  in  her  approaching  connection  with  one 
rich  and  noble  as  Trevylyan,  he  felt  even  something  bordering 
upon  pleasure.  Lapped  in  the  apathetic  indifference  of  his 
nature,  he  leaned  back  in  the  carriage,  enjoying  the  bright 
weather  that  attended  their  journey,  and  sensible — for  he  was 
one  of  fine  and  cultivated  taste — of  whatever  beauties  of 
nature  or  remains  of  art  varied  their  course.  A  companion  of 
this  sort  was  the  most  agreeable  that  two  persons  never  need- 
ing a  third  could  desire  ;  he  left  them  undisturbed  to  the  in- 
toxication of  their  mutual  presence  ;  he  marked  not  the  inter- 
change of  glances  ;  he  listened  not  to  the  whisper,  the  low, 
delicious  whisper,  with  which  the  heart  speaks  its  sympathy  to 
heart.  He  broke  not  that  charmed  silence  which  falls  over  us 
when  the  thoughts  are  full,  and  words  leave  nothing  to  explain  ; 
that  repose  of  feeling  ;  that  certainty  that  we  are  understood 
without  the  effort  of  words,  which  makes  the  real  luxury  of 
intercourse  and  the  true  enchantment  of  travel.  What  a 
memory  hours  like  these  bequeath,  after  we  have  settled  down 
into  the  calm  occupations  of  common  life  !  How  beautiful, 
through  the  vista  of  years,  seems  that  brief  moonlight  track 
upon  the  waters  of  our  youth  ! 

And  Trevylyan's  nature,  which,  as  I  have  said  before,  was 
naturally  hard  and  stern  ;  which  was  hot,  irritable,  ambitious, 


28  THE   PILGRIMS   OF   THE   RHINE. 

and  prematurely  tinctured  with  the  policy  and  lessons  of  the 
world,  seemed  utterly  changed  by  the  peculiarities  of  his  love  ; 
every  hour,  every  moment  was  full  of  incident  to  him  ;  every 
look  of  Gertrude's  was  entered  in  the  tablets  of  his  heart,  so 
that  his  love  knew  no  languor,  it  required  no  change  :  he  was 
absorbed  in  it — //  was  himself !  And  he  was  soft  and  watch- 
ful as  the  step  of  a  mother  by  the  couch  of  her  sick  child  ;  the 
lion  within  him  was  tamed  by  indomitable  love  ;  the  sadness, 
the  presentiment  that  was  mixed  with  all  his  passion  for  Ger- 
trude, filled  him  too  with  that  poetry  of  feeling  which  is  the 
result  of  thoughts  weighing  upon  us,  and  not  to  be  expressed 
by  ordinary  language.  In  this  part  of  their  journey,  as  I  find 
by  the  date,  were  the  following  lines  written  ;  they  are  to  be 
judged  as  the  lines  of  one  in  whom  emotion  and  truth  were 
the  only  inspiration  : 

i. 

As  leaves  left  darkling  in  the  flush  of  day, 

When  glints  the  glad  sun  checkering  o'er  the  tree, 

I  see  the  green  earth  brightening  in  the  ray, 
Which  only  casts  a  shadow  upon  me  ! 

II. 
What  are  the  beams,  the  flowers,  the  glory,  all 

Life's  glow  and  gloss — the  music  and  the  bloom, 
When  every  sun  but  speeds  the  Eternal  Pall, 

And  Time  is  Death  that  dallies  with  the  Tomb? 

in. 
And  yet — oh  yet,  so  young,  so  pure  ! — the  while 

Fresh  laugh  the  rose-hues  round  youth's  morning  sky, 
That  voice — those  eyes — the  deep  love  of  that  smile, 

Are  they  not  soul — all  soul — and  can  they  die  ? 

IV. 
Are  there  the  words  "  No  MORE  "  for  thoughts  like  ours? 

Must  the  bark  sink  upon  so  soft  a  wave? 
Hath  the  short  summer  of  thy  life  no  flowers, 

But  those  which  bloom  above  thine  early  grave  ? 

V. 
O  God  !  and  what  is  life,  that  I  should  live  ? 

(Hath  not  the  world  enow  of  common  clay?) 
And  she — the  Rose — whose  life  a  soul  could  give 

To  the  void  desert,  sigh  its  sweets  away  ? 

VI. 
And  I  that  love  thee  thus,  to  whom  the  air, 

Blest  by  thy  breath,  makes  heaven  where'er  it  b«, 
Watch  thy  cheek  wane,  and  smile  away  despair — 

Lest  it  should  dim  one  hour  yet  left  to  Thee. 


tHE   PILGRIMS   OF    THE    RHINE.  2$ 


VII. 


Still  let  me  conquer  self,— oh,  still  conceal 

By  the  smooth  brow  the  snake  that  coils  below  ; 

Break,  break  my  heart,  it  comforts  yet  to  feel 
That  she  dreams  on,  unwaken'd  by  my  woe  ! 

VIII. 

Hu>h'd,  where  the  Star's  soft  angel  loves  to  keep 
Watch  o'er  their  tide,  the  mourning  waters  roll  ; 

So  glides  my  spirit — darkness  in  the  deep, 
But  o'er  the  wave  the  presence  of  thy  soul  ! 

Gertrude  had  not  as  yet  the  presentiments  that  filled  the 
soul  of  Trevylyan.  She  thought  too  little  of  herself  to  know 
her  danger,  and  those  hours  to  her-were  hours  of  unmingled 
sweetness.  Sometimes,  indeed,  the  exhaustion  of  her  disease 
tinged  her  spirits  with  a  vague  sadness,  an  abstraction  came 
over  her,  and  a  languor  she  vainly  struggled  against.  These 
fits  of  dejection  and  gloom  touched  Trevylyan  to  the  quick  ; 
his  eye  never  ceased  to  watch  them,  nor  his  heart  to  soothe. 
Often  when  he  marked  them,  he  sought  to  attract  her  atten- 
tion from  what  he  fancied,  though  erringly,  a  sympathy  with 
his  own  forebodings,  and  to  lead  her  young  and  romantic  im- 
agination through  the  temporary  beguilements  of  fiction  ;  for 
Gertrude  was  yet  in  the  first  bloom  of  youth,  and  all  the  dews 
of  beautiful  childhood  sparkled  freshly  from  the  virgin  blos- 
soms of  her  mind.  And  Trevylyan,  who  had  passed  some  of 
his  early  years  among  the  students  of  Leipsic,  and  was  deeply 
versed  in  the  various  world  of  legendary  lore,  ransacked  his 
memory  for  such  tales  as  seemed  to  him  most  likely  to  win  her 
interest  ;  and  often  with  false  smiles  entered  into  the  playful 
tale,  or  oftener,  with  more  faithful  interest,  into  the  graver 
legend  of  trials  that  warned  of  yet  beguiled  them  from  their 
own.  Of  such  tales  I  have  selected  but  a  few ;  I  know  not 
that  they  are  the  least  unworthy  of  repetition  ;  they  are  those 
which  many  recollections  induce  me  to  repeat  the  most  will- 
ingly. Gertrude  loved  these  stories,  for  she  had  not  yet  lost, 
by  the  coldness  of  the  world,  one  leaf  from  that  soft  and  wild 
romance  which  belonged  to  her  beautiful  mind.  And,  more 
than  all,  she  loved  the  sounds  of  a  voice  which  every  day  be- 
came more  and  more  musical  to  her  ear.  "  Shall  I  tell  you," 
said  Trevylyan,  one  morning,  as  he  observed  her  gloomier 
mood  stealing  over  the  face  of  Gertrude, "  shall  I  tell  you,  ere 
yet  we  pass  into  the  dull  land  of  Holland,  a  story  of  Malines, 
whose  spires  we  shall  shortly  see  ?  "  Gertrude's  face  bright- 
ened at  once,  and,  as  she  leaned  back  in  the  carriage  as  it 


JO  THE   MLfjRlMS   OF    THE   RHIN& 

whirled  rapidly  along,  and  fixed  her  deep  blue  eyes  on  Trevy« 
lyan,  he  began  the  following  tale. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

THE    MAID    OF    MALINES. 

IT  was  noonday  in  the  town  of  Malines,  or  Mechlin,  as  the 
English  usually  term  it  ;  the  Sabbath  bell  had  summoned  the 
inhabitants  to  divine  worship  ;  and  the  crowd  that  had  loi- 
tered round  the  Church  of  St.  Rembauld  had  gradually  emptied 
itself  within  the  spacious  aisles  of  the  sacred  edifice. 

A  young  man  was  standing  in  the  street,  with  his  eyes  bent 
on  the  ground,  and  apparently  listening  for  some  sound  ;  for, 
without  raising  his  looks  from  the  rude  pavement,  he  turned 
to  every  corner  of  it  with  an  intent  and  anxious  expression  of 
countenance;  he  held  in  one  hand  a  staff,  in  the  other  a  long,  slen- 
der cord,  the  end  of  which  trailed  on  the  ground  ;  every  now  and 
then  he  called, with  a  plaintive  voice,  "  Fido,  Fido,  comeback  ! 
Why  hast  thou  deserted  me?"  Fido  returned  not;  the  dog, 
wearied  of  confinement,  had  slipped  from  the  string,  and  was 
at  play  with  his  kind  in  a  distant  quarter  of  the  town,  leaving 
the  blind  man  to  seek  his  way  as  he  might  to  his  solitary  inn. 

By  and  by  a  light  step  passed  through  the  street,  and  the 
young  stranger's  face  brightened. 

"Pardon  me,"  said  he,  turning  to  the  spot  where  his  quick 
ear  had  caught  the  sound,  "  and  direct  me,  if  you  are  not 
much  pressed  for  a  few  moments'  time,  to  the  hotel  Morlier 
d'Or." 

It  was  a  young  woman,  whose  dress  betokened  that  she  be- 
longed to  the  middling  class  of  life,  whom  he  thus  addressed  : 
"  It  is  some  distance  hence,  sir,"  said  she;  "but  if  you  con- 
tinue your  way  straight  on  for  about  a  hundred  yards,  and  then 
take  the  second  turn  to  your  right  hand — " 

"Alas  !  "  interrupted  the  stranger,  with  a  melancholy  smile, 
"  your  direction  will  avail  me  little  ;  my  dog  has  deserted  me, 
and  I  am  blind  !  " 

There  was  something  in  these  words,  and  in  the  stranger's 
voice,  which  went  irresistibly  to  the  heart  of  the  young  woman. 
"  Pray  forgive  me,"  she  said,  almost  with  tears  in  her  eyes, 
"  I  did  not  perceive  your — "  misfortune,  she  was  about  to  say, 
but  she  checked  herself  with  an  instinctive  delicacy.  "  Lean 
upon  me,  I  will  conduct  you  to  the  door  ;  nay,  sir,"  observing 
that  he  hesitated,  "  I  have  time  enough  to  spare,  I  assure  you." 


TTHE   PILGRIMS  Of   Trffc   RHINE.  3! 

The  stranger  placed  his  hand  on  the  young  woman'  &  arm, 
and  though  Lucille  was  naturally  so  bashful  that  even  her 
mother  would  laughingly  reproach  her  for  the  excess  of  a 
maiden  virtue,  she  felt  not  the  least  pang  of  shame,  as  she 
found  herself  thus  suddenly  walking  through  the  streets  of 
Malines  alone  with  a  young  stranger,  whose  dress  and  air  be- 
tokened him  of  rank  superior  to  her  own. 

"  Your  voice  is  very  gentle,"  said  he,  after  a  pause  ;  "  and 
that,"  he  added,  with  a  slight  sigh,  "  is  the  only  criterion  by  which 
I  know  the  young  and  the  beautiful  !  "  Lucille  now  blushed, 
and  with  a  slight  mixture  of  pain  in  the  blush,  for  she  knew 
well  that  to  beauty  she  had  no  pretension.  "  Are  you  a  native 
of  this  town  ?  "  continued  he. 

"  Yes,  sir  ;  my  father  holds  a  small  office  in  the  customs, 
and  my  mother  and  I  eke  out  his  salary  by  making  lace.  We 
are  called  poor,  but  we  do  not  feel  it,  sir." 

"  You  are  fortunate  !  There  is  nt>  wealth  like  the  heart's 
wealth — content,"  answered  the  blind  man  mournfully. 

"And  Monsieur,"  said  Lucille,  feeling  angry  with  herself 
that  she  had  awakened  a  natural  envy  in  the  stranger's  mind, 
and  anxious  to  change  the  subject  ;  "  And  Monsieur,  has  he 
been  long  at  Malines  ?  " 

"  But  yesterday.  I  am  passing  through  the  Low  Countries 
an  a  tour  ;  perhaps  you  smile  at  the  tour  of  a  blind  man,  but 
,,t  is  wearisome  even  to  the  blind  to  rest  always  in  the  same 
•place.  I  thought  during  church-time,  when  the  streets  were 
empty,  that  I  might,  by  the  help  of  my  dog,  enjoy  safely  at 
least  the  air,  if  not  the  sight  of  the  town  :  but  there  are  some 
persons,  methinks,  who  cannot  have  even  a  dog  for  a  friend  ! 

The  blind  man  spoke  bitterly  ;  the  desertion  of  his  dog  had 
touched  him  to  the  core.  Lucille  wiped  her  eyes.  "And  does 
Monsieur  travel  then  alone?"  said  she;  and  looking  at  his 
face  more  attentively  than  she  had  yet  ventured  to  do,  she  saw 
that  he  was  scarcely  above  two-and-twenty.  "  His  father,  his 
mother"  she  added,  with  an  emphasis  on  the  last  word,  "  are 
they  not  with  him  ?  " 

"I  am  an  oiphan  !"  answered  the  stranger;  "and  I  have 
neither  brother  nor  sister." 

The  desolate  condition  of  the  blind  man  quite  melted  Lu- 
cille ;  never  had  she  been  so  strongly  affected.  She  felt  a 
strange  flutter  at  the  heart — a  secret  and  earnest  sympathy, 
that  attracted  her  at  once  towards  him.  She  wished  that  Heav- 
en had  suffered  her  to  be  his  sister. 

The  contrast  between  the  youth  and  the  form  of  the  stranger, 


3»  ?Mfi   PILGRIMS  OF   THE   RHINE. 

and  the  affliction  which  took  hope  from  the  one,  and  activity 
from  the  other,  increased  the  compassion  he  excited.  His 
features  were  remarkably  regular,  and  had  a  certain  nobleness 
in  their  outline  ;  and  his  frame  was  gracefully  and  firmly  knit, 
though  he  moved  cautiously  and  with  no  cheerful  step. 

They  had  now  passed  into  a  narrow  street  leading  towards 
the  hotel,  when  they  heard  behind  them  the  clatter  of  hoofs  ; 
and  Lucille,  looking  hastily  back,  saw  a  troop  of  the  Belgian 
horse  was  passing  through  the  town. 

She  drew  her  charge  close  by  the  wall,  and  trembling  with 
fear  for  him,  she  stationed  herself  by  his  side.  The  troop 
passed  at  a  full  trot  through  the  street  ;  and  at  the  sound  of 
their  clanging  arms,  and  the  ringing  hoofs  of  their  heavy  charg- 
ers, Lucille  might  have  seen,  had  she  looked  at  the  blind 
man's  face,  that  its  sad  features  kindled  with  enthusiasm,  and 
his  head  was  raised  proudly  from  its  wonted  and  melancholy 
bend.  "  Thank  Heaven  !  "  she  said,  as  the  troop  had  nearly 
passed  them,  "  the  danger  is  over!"  Not  so.  One  of  the 
last  two  soldiers  who  rode  abreast  was  unfortunately  mounted 
on  a  young  and  unmanageable  horse.  The  rider's  oaths  and 
digging  spur  only  increased  the  fire  and  impatience  of  the 
charger  ;  it  plunged  from  side  to  side  of  the  narrow  street. 

"  Look  to  yourselves  !  "  cried  the  horseman,  as  he  was  borne 
on  to  the  place  where  Lucille  and  the  stranger  stood  against 
the  wall.  "  Are  ye  mad  ?  Why  do  you  not  run  ?" 

"  For  Heaven's  sake — for  mercy's  sake,  he  is  blind  !  "  cried 
Lucille,  clinging  to  the  stranger's  side. 

"  Save  yourself,  my  kind  guide  !  "  said  the  stranger.  But 
Lucille  dreamed  not  of  such  desertion.  The  trooper  wrested 
the  horse's  head  from  the  spot  where  they  stood  ;  with  a  snort, 
as  it  felt  the  spur,  the  enraged  animal  lashed  out  with  itshind- 
legs  ;  and  Lucille,  unable  to  save  both,  threw  herself  before  the 
blind  man,  and  received  the  shock  directed  against  him  ;  her 
slight  and  delicate  arm  fell  broken  by  her  side — the  horseman 
was  borne  onward.  "  Thank  God,  you  are  saved  !  "  was  poor 
Lucille's  exclamation  ;  and  she  fell,  overcome  with  pain  and 
terror,  into  the  arms  which  the  stranger  mechanically  opened 
'to  receive  her. 

"  My  guide  !  my  friend  !  "  cried   he,  "  you  are  hurt,  you — 
-  "  No,  sir,"  interrupted   Lucille  faintly,  vi  I  am  better — I  am 
well.     77//V  arm,  if  you  please — we  are  not  far  from  your  hotel 
now." 

But  the  stranger's  ear,  tutored  to  every  inflection  of  voice, 
told  him  at  once  of  the  Dam  she  suffered  :  he  drew  from  her 


THE    PILGRIMS   OF    THE    RHINE.  33 

by  degrees  the  confession  of  the  injury  she  had  sustained  ;- 
but  the  generous  girl  did  not  tell  him  it  had  been  incurred 
solely  in  his  protection.  He  now  insisted  on  reversing  their 
duties,  and  accompanying  her  to  her  home  ;  and  Lucille,  almost 
fainting  with  pain,  and  hardly  able  to  move,  was  forced  to 
consent.  But  a  few  steps  down  the  next  turning  stood  the 
humble  mansion  of  her  father — they  reached  it — and  Lucille 
scarcely  crossed  the  threshold,  before  she  sank  down,  and  for 
some  minutes  was  insensible  to  pain.  It  was  left  to  the  stranger 
to  explain,  and  to  beseech  them  immediately  to  send  for  a 
surgeon,  "  the  most  skilful,  the  most  practised  in  the  town," 
said  he.  "  See,  I  am  rich,  and  this  is  the  least  I  can  do  to 
atone  to  your  generous  daughter,  for  not  forsaking  even  a 
stranger  in  peril." 

He  held  out  his  purse  as  he  spoke,  but  the  father  refused 
the  offer  ;  and  it  saved  the  blind  man  some  shame,  that  he 
could  not  see  the  blush  of  honest  resentment  with  which  so 
poor  a  species  of  remuneration  was  put  aside. 

The  young  man  stayed  till  the  surgeon  arrived,  till  the  arm 
was  set  ;  nor  did  he  depart  until  he  had  obtained  a  promise 
from  the  mother,  that  he  should  learn  the  next  morning  how 
the  sufferer  had  passed  the  night. 

The  next  morning,  indeed,  he  had  intended  to  quit  a  town 
that  offers  but  little  temptation  to  the  traveller  ;  but  he 
tarried  day  after  day,  until  Lucille  herself  accompanied  her 
mother,  to  assure  him  of  her  recovery. 

You  know,  or  at  least  I  do,  dearest  Gertrude,  that  there  is 
such  a  thing  as  love  at  the  first  meeting — a  secret,  an  unac- 
countable affinity  between  persons  (strangers  before)  which 
draws  them  irresistibly  together.  As  if  there  were  truth  in 
Plato's  beautiful  phantasy,  that  our  souls  were  a  portion  of  the 
stars,  and  that  spirits,  thus  attracted  to  each  other,  have  drawn 
their  original  light  from  the  same  orb  ;  and  yearn  fora  renewal 
of  their  former  union.  Yet  without  recurring  to  such  fanciful 
solutions  of  a  daily  mystery,  it  was  but  natural  that  one  in  the 
forlorn  and  desolate  condition  of  Eugene  St.  Amand  should 
have  felt  a  certain  tenderness  for  a  person  who  had  so  gener- 
ously suffered  for  his  sake. 

The  darkness  to  which  he  was  condemned  did  not  shut  from 
his  mind's  eye  the  haunting  images  of  ideal  beauty  ;  rather,  on 
the  contrary,  in  his  perpetual  and  unoccupied  solitude,  he  fed 
the  reveries  of  an  imagination  naturally  warm,  and  a  heart 
eager  for  sympathy  and  commune. 

He  had  said  rightly  that  his  only  test  of  beauty  was  in  the 


34  THE    PILGRIMS   OF    THE    RHINE. 

melody  of  voice  ;  and  never  had  a  softer  or  a  more  thrilling 
tone  than  that  of  the  young  maiden  touched  upon  his  ear. 
Her  exclamation,  so  beautifully  denying  self,  so  devoted  in  its 
charity,  "Thank  God,y0u  are  saved!"  uttered  too  in  the 
moment  of  her  own  suffering,  rang  constantly  upon  his  soul, 
and  he  yielded,  without  precisely  denning  their  nature,  to  vague 
and  delicious  sentiments,  that  his  youth  had  never  awakened 
to  till  then.  And  Lucille — the  very  accident  that  had  happened 
to  her  on  his  behalf,  only  deepened  the  interest  she  had  already 
conceived  for  one\who,  in  the  first  flush  of  youth,  was  thus  cut 
off  from  the  glad  objects  of  life,  and  left  to  a  night  of  years 
desolate  and  alone.  There  is,  to  your  beautiful  and  kindly 
sex,  a  natural  inclination  to  protect.  This  makes  them  the 
angels  of  sickness,  the  comforters  of  age,  the  fosterers  of  child- 
hood ;  and  this  feeling,  in  Lucille  peculiarly  developed,  had 
already  inexpressibly  linked  her  compassionate  nature  to  the 
lot  of  the  unfortunate  traveller.  With  ardent  affections,  and 
with  thoughts  beyond  her  station  and  her  years,  she  was  not 
without  that  modest  vanity  which  made  her  painfully  suscepti- 
ble to  her  own  deficiencies  in  beauty.  Instinctively  conscious 
of  how  deeply  she  herself  could  love,  she  believed  it  impossible 
that  she  could  ever  be  so  loved  in  return.  This  stranger,  so 
superior  in  her  eyes  to  all  she  had  yet  seen,  was  the  first  who 
had  ever  addressed  her  in  that  voice  which  by  tones,  not  words, 
speaks  that  admiration  most  dear  to  a  woman's  heart.  To 
him  she  was  beautiful,  and  her  lovely  mind  spoke  out  un- 
dimmed  by  the  imperfections  of  her  face.  Not,  indeed,  that 
Lucille  was  wholly  without  personal  attraction  ;  her  light  step 
and  graceful  form  were  elastic  with  the  freshness  of  youth,  and 
her  mouth  and  smile  had  so  gentle  and  tender  an  expression, 
that  there  were  moments  when  it  would  not  have  been  the  blind 
only  who  would  have  mistaken  her  to  be  beautiful.  Her  early 
childhood  had  indeed  given  the  promise  of  attractions,  which 
the  small-pox,  that  then  fearful  malady,  had  inexorably  marred. 
It  had  not  only  seared  the  smooth  skin  and  the  brilliant  hues, 
but  utterly  changed  even  the  character  of  the  features.  It  so 
happened  that  Lucille's  family  were  celebrated  for  beauty,  and 
vain  of  that  celebrity  ;  and  so  bitterly  had  her  parents  deplored 
the  effects  of  the  cruel  malady,  that  poor  Lucille  had  been 
early  taught  to  consider  them  far  more  grievous  than  they 
really  were,  and  to  exaggerate  the  advantages  of  that  beauty, 
the  16ss  of  which  was  considered  by  her  parents  so  heavy  a 
misfortune.  Lucille  too  had  a  cousin  named  Julie,  who  was 
the  wonder  of  all  Malines  for  her  personal  perfections ;  a,nc] 


THE    PILGRIMS    OF    THE    RHINE.  3$ 

as  the  cousins  were  much  together,  the  contrast  was  too  strik- 
ing not  to  occasion:  frequent  mortification  to  Lucille.  But 
every  misfortune  has  something  of  a  counterpoise  ;  and  the 
consciousness  of  personal  inferiority  had  meekened,  without 
souring,  her  temper  ;  had  given  gentleness  to  a  spirit  that  other- 
wise might  have  been  too  high,  and  humility  to  a  mind  that 
was  naturally  strong,  impassioned,  and  energetic. 

And  yet  Lucille  had  long  conquered  the  one  disadvantage 
she  most  dreaded  in  the  want  of  beauty.  -  Lucille  was  never 
known  but  to  be  loved.  Wherever  came  her  presence,  her 
bright  and  soft  mind  diffused  a  certain  inexpressible  charm  ; 
and  where  she  was  not,  a  something  was  absent  from  the  scene 
which  not  even  Julie's  beauty  could  replace. 

"  I  propose,"  said  St.  Amandto  Madame  le  Tisseur,  Lucille's 
mother,  as  he  sat  in  her  little  salon,  for  he  had  already  con- 
tracted that  acquaintance  with  the  family  which  permitted  him 
to  be  led  to  their  house,  to  return  the  visits  Madame  le  Tisseur 
had  made  him,  and  his  dog,  once  more  returned  a  penitent  to 
his  master,  always  conducted  his  steps  to  the  humble  abode, 
and  stopped  instinctively  at  the  door — "  I  propose,"  said  St. 
Amand,  after  a  pause,  and  with  some  embarrassment,"  to  stay 
a  little  while  longer  at  Malines;  the  air  agrees  with  me,  and  I 
like  the  quiet  of  the  place  !  but  you  are  aware,  madame,  that 
at  a  hotel  among  strangers,  I  feel  my  situation  somewhat  cheer- 
less. I  have  been  thinking" — St.  Amand  paused  again— "  I 
have  been  thinking  that  if  I  could  persuade  some  agreeable 
family  to  receive  me  as  a  lodger,  I  would  fix  myself  here  for 
some  weeks.  I  am  easily  pleased." 

"  Doubtless  there  are  many  in  Malines  who  would  be  too 
happy  to  receive  such  a  lodger." 

"  Will  you  receive  me  ?  "  asked  St.  Amand  abruptly.  "  It 
was  of  your  family  I  thought." 

"Of  us  ?  Monsieur  is  too  flattering.  But  we  have  scarcely 
a  room  good  enough  for  you." 

"  What  difference  between  one  room  and  another  can  there 
be  to  me  ?  That  is  the  best  apartment  to  my  choice  in  which 
the  human  voice  sounds  most  kindly." 

The  arrangement  was  made,  and  St.  Amand  came  now  to 
reside  beneath  the  same  roof  as  Lucille.  And  was  she  not 
happy  that  he  wanted  so  constant  an  attendance  ?  Was  she 
not  happy  that  she  was  ever  of  use  ?  St.  Amand  was  passion- 
ately fond  of  music  ;  he  played  himself  with  a  skill  that  was 
only  surpassed  by  the  exquisite  melody  of  his  voice  ;  and  was 
pot  Lucille  happy  when  she  sat  mute  ancj  listening  to  such 


^  THE    PILGRIMS    OF    THE    RHINE. 

sounds  as  in  Malines  were  never  heard  before  ?  Was  she  not 
happy  in  gazing  on  a  face  to  whose  melancholy  aspect  her 
voice  instantly  summoned  the  smile?  Was  she  not  happy 
when  the  music  ceased,  and  St.  Amand  called  "Lucille"? 
Did  not  her  own  name  uttered  by  that  voice  seem  to  her  even 
sweeter  than  the  music  !  Was  she  not  happy  when  they  walked 
out  in  the  still  evenings  of  summer,  and  her  arm  thrilled  be- 
neath the  light  touch  of  one  to  whom  she  was  so  necessary  ? 
Was  she  not  proud  in  her  happiness,  and  was  there  not  some- 
thing like  worship  in  the  gratitude  she  felt  to  him,  for  raising 
her  humble  spirit  to  the  luxury  of  feeling  herself  beloved  ? 

St.  Amand's  parents  were  French.  They  had  resided  in  the 
neighborhood  of  Amiens,  where  they  had  inherited  a  competent 
property,  to  which  he  had  succeeded  about  two  years  previous 
to  the  date  of  my  story. 

He  had  been  blind  from  the  age  of  three  years.  "  I  know 
not,"  said  he,  as  he  related  these  particulars  to  Lucille  one 
evening  when  they  were  alone  ;  "  I  know  not  what  the  earth 
may  be  like,  or  the  heaven,  or  the  rivers  whose  voice  at  least 
I  can  hear,  for  I  have  no  recollection  beyond  that  of  a  con- 
fused, but  delicious,  blending  of  a  thousand  glorious  colors — 
a  bright  and  quick  sense  of  joy — A  VISIBLE  MUSIC.  But  it  is 
only  since  my  childhood  closed  that  I  have  mourned,  as  I  now 
unceasingly  mourn,  for  the  light  of  day.  My  boyhood  passed 
in  a  quiet  cheerfulness  ;  the  least  trifle  then  could  please  and 
occupy  the  vacancies  of  my  mind  ;  but  it  was  as  I  took  delight 
in  being  read  to,  as  I  listened  to  the  vivid  descriptions  of  Poe- 
try, as  I  glowed  at  the  recital  of  great  deeds,  as  I  was  made 
acquainted  by  books  with  the  energy,  the  action,  the  heat,  the 
fervor,  the  pomp,  the  enthusiasm  of  life,  that  I  gradually  opened 
to  the  sense  of  all  I  was  forever  denied.  1  felt  that  1  existed, 
not  lived  ;  and  that,  in  the  midst  of  the  Universal  Liberty,  I 
was  sentenced  to  a  prison,  from  whose  blank  walls  there  was 
no  escape.  Still,  however,  while  my  parents  lived,  I  had  some- 
thing of  consolation  ;  at  least  I  was  not  alone.  They  died, 
and  a  sudden -and  dread  solitude,  a  vast  and  empty  dreariness, 
settled  upon  my  dungeon.  One  old  servant  only,  who  had 
attended  me  from  my  childhood,  who  had  known  me  in  my 
short  privilege  of  light,  by  whose  recollections  my  mind  could 
grope  back  its  way  through  the  dark  and  narrow  passages  of 
memory  to  faint  glimpses  of  the  sun,  was  all  that  remained  to 
me  of  human  sympathies.  It  did  not  suffice,  however,  to  con- 
tent me  with  a  home  where  my  father  and  my  mother's  kind 
voice  were  not.  A  restless  impatience,  an  anxiety  to  move 


THE   PILGRIMS   OF   THE   RHINE.  37 

possessed  me,  and  I  set  out  from  my  home,  journeying  whither 
I  cared  not,  so  that  at  least  I  could  change  an  air  that  weighed 
upon  me  like  a  palpable  burthen.  I  took  only  this  old  attend- 
ant as  my  companion  ;  he  too  died  three  months  since  at 
Brtixelles,  worn  out  with, years.  Alas  !  I  had  forgotten  that 
he  was  old,  for  I  saw  not  his  progress  to  decay  ;  and  now, 
save  my  faithless  dog,  I  was  utterly  alone,  till  1  came  hither 
and  found  thee." 

Lucille  stooped  down  to  caress  the  dog ;  she  blessed  the 
desertion  that  had  led  him  to  a  friend  who  never  could  desert. 

But  however  much,  and  however  gratefully,  St.  Amand  loved 
Lucille,  her  power  availed  not  to  chase  the  melancholy  from 
his  brow,  and  to  reconcile  him  to  his  forlorn  condition. 

"  Ah  !  would  that  I  could  see  thee  !  Would  that  I  could 
look  upon  a  face  that  my  heart  vainly  endeavors  to  delineate  !  " 

"  If  thou  couldst,"  sighed  Lucille,  "  thou  wouldst  cease  to 
love  me." 

"  Impossible  !  "  cried  St.  Amand  passionately.  "  However 
the  world  may  find  thee,  thou  wouldst  become  my  standard  of 
beauty  ;  and  I  should  judge  not  of  thee  by  others,  but  of 
others  by  thee." 

He  loved  to  hear  Lucille  read  to  him,  and  mostly  he  loved 
the  descriptions  of  war,  of  travel, 'of  wild  adventure,  and  yet 
they  occasioned  him  the  most  pain.  Often  she  paused  from 
the  page  as  she  heard  him  sigh,  and  felt  that  she  would  even 
have  renounced  the  bliss  of  being  loved  by  him,  if  she  could 
have  restored  to  him  that  blessing,  the  desire  for  which  haunt- 
ed him  as  a  spectre. 

Lucille's  family  were  Catholic,  and,  like  most  in  their  sta- 
tion, they  possessed  the  superstitions,  as  well  as  the  devotion, 
of  the  faith.  Sometimes  they  amused  themselves  of  an  even- 
ing by  the  various  legends  and  imaginary  miracles  of  their 
calendar  ;  and  once,  as  they  were  thus  conversing  with  two  or 
three  of  their  neighbors,  "  The  Tomb  of  the  Three  Kings  of 
Cologne  "  became  the  main  topic  of  their  wondering  recitals. 
However  strong  was  the  sense  of  Lucille,  she  was,  as  you  will 
readily  conceive,  naturally,  influenced  by  the  belief  of  those 
with  whom  she  had  been  brought  up  from  her  cradle,  and  she 
listened  to  tale  after  tale  of  the  miracles  wrought  at  the  conse- 
crated tomb,  as  earnestly  and  undoubtingly  as  the  rest. 

And  the  Kings  of  the  East  were  no  ordinary  saints  ;  to  the 
relics  of  the  Three  Magi,  who  followed  the  Star  of  Bethlehem, 
and  were  the  first  potentates  of  the  earth  who  adored  its  Sa- 
viour, well  might  the  pious  Catholic  suppose  that  a  peculia/ 


38  THE   PILGRIMS  OF   THE   RHINE. 

power,  and  a  healing  sanctity,  would  belong.  Each  of  the 
circle  (St.  Amand,  who  had  been  more  than  usually  silent,  and 
even  gloomy  during  the  day,  had  retired  to  his  own  apart- 
ment, for  there  were  some  moments  when,  in  the  sadness  of 
his  thoughts,  he  sought  that  solitude  which  he  so  impatiently 
fled  from  at  others) — each  of  the  circle  had  some  story  to  re- 
late equally  veracious  and  indisputable,  of  an  infirmity  cured, 
or  a  prayer  accorded,  or  a  sin  atoned  for  at  the  foot  of  the 
holy  tomb.  One  story  peculiarly  affected  Lucille  ;  the  nar- 
rator, a  venerable  old  man  with  gray  locks,  solemnly  declared 
himself  a  witness  of  its  truth. 

A  woman  at  Anvers  had  given  birth  to  a  son,  the  offspring 
of  an  illicit  connection,  who  came  into  the  world  deaf  and 
dumb.  The  unfortunate  mother  believed  the  calamity  a  pun- 
ishment for  her  own  sin.  "Ah  !  would,"  said  she,  "that  the 
affliction  had  fallen  only  upon  me  !  Wretch  that  I  am,  my 
innocent  child  is  punished  for  my  offence  !  "  This  idea  haunted 
her  night  and  day :  she  pined  and  could  not  be  comforted. 
As  the  child  grew  up,  and  wound  himself  more  and  more  round 
her  heart,  his  caresses  added  new  pangs  to  her  remorse;  and 
at  length  (continued  the  narrator)  hearing  perpetually  of  the 
holy  fame  of  the  Tomb  of  Cologne,  she  resolved  upon  a  pil- 
grimage barefooted  to  the  shrine.  "  God  is  merciful,"  said 
she,  "and  he  who  called  Magdalene  his  sister,  may  take  the 
mother's  curse  from  the  child."  She  then  went  to  Cologne  ; 
she  poured  her  tears,  her  penitence,  and  her  prayers,  at  the 
sacred  tomb.  When  she  returned  to  her  native  town,  what 
was  her  dismay  as  she  approached  her  cottage  to  behold  it  a 
heap  of  ruins  ! — its  blackened  rafters  and  yawning  casements 
betokened  the  ravages  of  fire.  The  poor  woman  sunk  upon 
the  ground  utterly  overpowered.  Had  her  son  perished  ?  At 
that  moment  she  heard  the  cry  of  a  child's  voice,  and,  lo !  her 
child  rushed  to  her  arms,  and  called  her  "  mother  !  " 

He  had  been  saved  from  the  fire  which  had  broken  out 
seven  days  before  ;  but  in  the  terror  he  had  suffered,  the  string 
that  tied  his  tongue  had  been  loosened  ;  he  had  uttered  articu- 
late sounds  of' distress  ;  the  curse  was  removed,  and  one  word 
at  least  the  kind  neighbors  had  already  taught  him,  to  welcome 
his  mother's  return.  What  cared  she  now  that  her  substance 
was  gone,  that  her  roof  was  ashes  ?  She  bowed  in  grateful 
submission  to  so  mild  a  stroke  ;  her  prayer  had  been  heard,  and 
the  sin  of  the  mother  was  visited  no  longer  on  the  child. 

I  have  said,  dear  Gertrude,  that  this  story  made  a  deep  im- 
pression upon  Lucille.  A  misfortune  so  nearly  akin  to  that  of 


THE   PILGRIMS  OF   THE   RHINE.  30 

St,  Amand,  removed  by  the  prayer  of  another,  filled  her  with 
devoted  thoughts,  and  a  beautiful  hope.  "  Is  not  the  tomb 
still  standing  ?"  thought  she.  "  Is  not  God  still  in  heaven? 
He  who  heard  the  guilty,  may  He  not  hear  the  guiltless  ?  Is 
He  not  the  God  of  love  ?  Are  not  the  affections  the  offerings 
that  please  Him  best?  And  what  though  the  child's  mediator 
was  his  mother,  can  even  a  mother  love  her  child  more  ten- 
derly than  I  love  Eugene?  But  if,  Lucille,  thy  prayer  be 
granted,  if  he  recover  his  sight,  thy  charm  is  gone,  he  will  love 
thee  no  longer.  No  matter !  be  it  so — I  shall  at  least  have 
made  him  happy  !  " 

Such  were  the  thoughts  that  filled  the  mind  of  Lucille ;  she 
cherished  them  till  they  settled  into  resolution,  and  she  secretly 
vowed  to  perform  her  pilgrimage  of  love.  She  told  neither 
St.  Amand  nor  her  parents  of  her  intention  ;  she  knew  the 
obstacles  such  an  announcement  would  create.  Fortunately 
she  had  an  aunt  settled  at  Bruxelles,  to  whom  she  had  been 
accustomed,  once  in  every  year,  to  pay  a  month's  visit,  and  at 
that  time  she  generally  took  with  her  the  work  of  a  twelve- 
month's industry,  which  found  a  readier  sale  at  Bruxelles  than 
at  Malines.  Lucille  and  St.  Amand  were  already  betrothed  ; 
their  wedding  was  shortly  to  take  place  ;  and  the  custom  of 
the  country  leading  parents,  however  poor,  to  nourish  the 
honorable  ambition  of  giving  some  dowry  with  their  daughters, 
Lucille  found  it  easy  to  hide  the  object  of  her  departure,  under 
the  pretence  of  taking  the  lace  to  Bruxelles,  which  had  been 
the  year's  labor  of  her  mother  and  herself — it  would  sell  for 
sufficient,  at  least,  to  defray  the  preparations  for  the  wedding. 

"  Thou  art  ever  right,  child,"  said  Madame  le  Tisseur ; 
"  the  richer  St.  Amand  is,  why  the  less  ©tightest  thou  to  go  a 
beggar  to  his  house." 

In  fact,  the  honest  ambition  of  the  good  people  was  excited  ; 
their  pride  had  been  hurt  by  the  envy  of  the  town  and  the  cur- 
rent congratulations  on  so  advantageous  a  marriage  ;  and  they 
employed  themselves  in  counting  up  the  fortune  they  should 
be  able  to  give  to  their  only  child,  and  flattering  their  pardon- 
able vanity  with  the  notion  that  there  would  be  no  such  great 
disproportion  in  the  connection  after  all.  They  were  right, 
but  not  in  their  own  view  of  the  estimate  ;  the  wealth  that 
Lucille  brought  was  what  fate  could  not  lessen,  reverse  could 
not  reach ;  the  ungracious  seasons  could  not  blight  its  sweet 
harvest ;  imprudence  could  not  dissipate,  fraud  could  not 
steal,  one  grain  from  its  abundant  coffers  !  Like  the  purse  in 
the  Fairy  Tale,  its  use  was  hourly,  its  treasure  inexhaustible. 


40  THE   PILGRIMS   OF    THE   RHINE. 

St.  Amand  alone  was  not  to  be  won  to  her  departure  ;  he 
chafed  at  the  notion  of  a  dowry;  he  was  not  appeased  even 
by  Lucille's  representation,  that  it  was  only  to  gratify  and  not 
to  impoverish  her  parents.  "  And  thou,  too,  canst  leave  me  !  " 
he  said,  in  that  plaintive  voice  which  had  made  his  first  charm 
to  Lucille's  heart.  "  It  is  a  double  blindness  !" 

"  But  for  a  few  days ;  a  fortnight  at  most,  dearest  Eugene." 

"  A  fortnight !  you  do  not  reckon  time  as  the  blind  do," 
said  St.  Amand  bitterly. 

"  But  listen,  listen,  dear  Eugene,"  said  Lucille,  weeping. 

The  sound  of  her  sobs  restored  him  to  a  sense  of  his  ingrati- 
tude. Alas,  he  knew  not  how  much  he  had  to  be  grateful 
for.  He  held  out  his  arms  to  her.:  "Forgive  me,"  said  he. 
"Those  who  can  see  nature  know  not  how  terrible  it  is. to  be 
alone." 

"  But  my  mother  will  not  leave  you." 

"  She  is  not  you  !  " 

"  And  Julie,"  said  Lucille  hesitatingly. 

"  What  is  Julie  to  me  ?" 

"  Ah,  you  are  the  only  one,  save  my  parents,  who  could 
think  of  me  in  her  presence." 

"  And  why,  Lucille  ? " 

"  Why  !     She  is  more  beautiful  than  a  dream." 

"  Say  not  so.  Would  I  could  see,  that  I  might  prove  to  the 
world  how  much  more  beautiful  thou  art.  There  is  no  music 
in  her  voice." 

The  evening  before  Lucille  departed,  she  sat  up  late  with 
St.  Amand  and  her  mother.  They  conversed  on  the  future  ; 
they  made  plans  ;  in  the  wide  sterility  of  the  world  they  laid 
out  the  garden  of  household  love,  and  filled  it  with  flowers, 
forgetful  of  the  wind  that  scatters,  and  the  frost  that  kills. 
And  when,  leaning  on  Lucille's  arm,  St.  Amand  sought  his 
chamber,  and  they  parted  at  his  door,  which  closed  upon  her, 
she  fell  down  on  her  knees  at  the  threshold,  and  poured  out 
the  fulness  of  her  heart  in  a  prayer  for  his  safety,  and  the  ful- 
filment of  her  timid  hope. 

At  daybreak  she  was  consigned  to  the  conveyance  that  per- 
formed the  short  journey  from  Malines  to  Bruxelles.  When 
she  entered  the  town,  instead  of  seeking  her  aunt,  she  rested 
at  an  auberge  in  the  suburbs,  and  confiding  her  little  basket  of 
lace  to  the  care  of  its  hostess,  she  set  out  alone,  and  on  foot, 
upon  the  errand  of  her  heart's  lovely  superstition.  And  erring 
though  it  was,  her  faith  redeemed  its  weakness,  her  affection 
made  it  even  sacred.  And  well  may  we  believe,  that  the  Ey" 


THE    PILGRIMS   OF    THE    RHINE.  4! 

which  reads  all  secrets,  scarce  looked  reprovingly  on  that 
fanaticism  whose  only  infirmity  was  love. 

So  fearful  was  she  lest,  by  rendering  the  task  too  easy,  she 
might  impair  the  effect,  that  she  scarcely  allowed  herself  rest 
or  food.  Sometimes,  in  the  heat  of  noon,  she  wandered  a  lit- 
tle from  the  roadside,  and  under  the  spreading  lime  trees  sur- 
rendered her  mind  to  its  sweet  and  bitter  thoughts  ;  but  ever 
the  restlessness  of  her  enterprise  urged  her  on,  and  faint,  weary, 
and  with  bleeding  feet  she  started  up  and  continued  her  way. 
At  length  she  reached  the  ancient  city,  where  a  holier  age  has 
scarce  worn  from  the  habits  and  aspects  of  men  the  Roman 
trace.  She  prostrated  herself  at  the  tomb  of  the  Magi  ;  she 
proffered  her  ardent  but  humble  prayer  to  Him  before  whose 
Son  those  fieshless  heads  (yet  to  faith  at  least  preserved)  had, 
eighteen  centuries  ago,  bowed  in  adoration.  Twice  every  day, 
for  a  whole  week,  she  sought  the  same  spot,  and  poured  forth 
the  same  prayer.  The  last  day  an  old  priest,  who,  hovering  in 
the  church,  had  observed  her  constantly  at  devotion,  with  that 
fatherly  interest  which  the  better  ministers  of  the  Catholic  sect 
(that  sect  which  has  covered  the  earth  with  the  mansions  of 
charity)  feel  for  the  unhappy,  approached  her  as  she  was  retir- 
ing with  moist  and  downcast  eyes,  and  saluting  her,  assumed 
the  privilege  of  his  order,  to  inquire  if  there  was  aught  in  which 
his  advice  or  aid  could  serve.  There  was  something  in  the 
venerable  air  of  the  old  man  which  encouraged  Lucille  ;  she 
opened  her  heart  to  him  ;  she  told  him  all.  The  good  priest 
was  much  moved  by  her  simplicity  and  earnestness.  He  ques- 
tioned her  minutely  as  to  the  peculiar  species  of  blindness  with 
which  St.  Amand  was  afflicted  ;  and  after  musing  a  little  while, 
he  said  :  "  Daughter,  God  is  great  and  merciful  ;  we  must 
trust  in  His  power,  but  we  must  not  forget  that  He  mostly  works 
by  mortal  agents.  As  you  pass  through  Louvain  in  your  way 
home,  fail  not  to  see  there  a  certain  physician,  named  Le  Kain. 
He  is  celebrated  through  Flanders  for  the  cures  he  has  wrought 
among  the  blind,  and  his  advice  is  sought  by  all  classes  from 
far  and  near.  He  lives  hard  by  the  Hotel  de  Ville,  but  any 
one  will  inform  you  of  his  residence.  Stay,  my  child,  you  shall 
take  him  a  note  from  me  ;  he  is  a  benevolent  and  kindly  man, 
and  you  shall  tell  him  exactly  the  same  story  (and  with  the 
same  voice)  you  have  told  to  me." 

So  saying  the  priest  made  Lucille  accompany  him  to  his 
home,  and  forcing  her  to  refresh  herself  less  sparingly  than 
she  had  yet  done  since  she  had  left  Malines,  he  gave  her  his 
blessing,  and  a  letter  to  Le  Kain,  which  he  rightly  judged  would 


42  THE    PILGRIMS    OF    THE    RHINE. 

ensure  her  a  patient  hearing  from  the  physician.  Well  known 
among  all  men  of  science  was  the  name  of  the  priest,  and  a 
word  of  recommendation  from  him  went  farther,  where  virtue 
and  wisdom  were  honored,  than  the  longest  letter  from  the 
haughtiest  sieur  in  Flanders. 

With  a  patient  and  hopeful  spirit,  the  young  pilgrim  turned 
her  back  on  the  Roman  Cologne.;  and  now  about  to  rejoin  St. 
Amand,  she  felt  neither  the  heat  of  the  sun  nor  the  weariness 
of  the  road.  It  was  one  day  at  noon  that  she  again  .passed 
through  Louvain,  and  she  soon  found  herself  by  the  noble  edi- 
fice of  the  Hotel  de  Ville.  Proud  rose  its  spires  against  the  sky, 
and  the  sun  shone  bright  on  its  rich  tracery  and  Gothic  case- 
ments ;  the  broad  open  street  was  crowded  with  persons  of  all 
classes,  and  it  was  with  some  modest  alarm  that  Lucille  low- 
ered her  veil  and  mingled  with  the  throng.  It  was  easy,  as  the 
priest  had  said,  to  find  the  house  of  Le  Kain ;  she  bade  the 
servant  take  the  priest's  letter  to  his  master,  and  she  was  not 
long  kept  waiting  before  she  was  admitted  to  the  physician's 
presence.  He  was  a  spare,  tall  man,  with  a  bald  front,  and  a 
calm  and  friendly  countenance.  He  was  not  less  touched  than 
the  priest  had  been,  by  the  manner  in  which  she  narrated  her 
story,  described  the  affliction  of  her  betrothed,  and  the  hope 
that  had  inspired  the  pilgrimage  she  had  just  made. 

"  Well,"  said  he  encouragingly,  "  we  must  see  our  patient. 
You  can  bring  him  hither  to  me." 

"  Ah,  sir,  I  had  hoped —  "  Lucille  stopped  suddenly. 

"  What,  my  young  friend  ?  " 

"  That  I  might  have  had  the  triumph  of  bringing  you  to 
Malines.  I  know,  sir,  what  you  are  about  to  say  ;  and  1  know, 
sir,  your  time  must  be  very  valuable  ;  but  I  am  not  so  poor  as 
I  seem,  and  Eugene,-  that  is,  Monsieur  St.  Amand,  is  very  rich, 
and — and  I  have  at  Bruxelles,  what  I  am  sure  is  a  large  sum  ; 
it  was  to  have  provided  for  the  wedding,  but  it  is  most  heartily 
at  your  service,  sir." 

Le  Kain  smiled  ;  he  was  one  of  thoSfc  men  who  love  to  read 
the  human  heart  when  its  leaves  are  fair  and  undefiled  ;  and, 
in  the  benevolence  of  science,  he  would  have  gone  a  longer 
journey  than  from  Louvain  to  Malines  to  give  sight  to  the  blind, 
even  had  St.  Amand  been  a  beggar. 

"  Well,  well,"  said  he  ;  "  but  you  forget  that  Monsieur  St. 
Amand  is  not  the  only  one  in  the  world  who  wants  me.  I 
must  look  at  my  notebook,  and  see  if  I  can  be  spared  for  a  day 
or  two." 

So  saying  he  glanced  at  his  memoranda  ;  everything  smiled 


THE    PILGRIMS    OF    THE    RHINE.  43' 

on  Lucille  ;  he  had  no  engagements  that  his  partner  could  not 
fulfil,  for  some  days  ;  he  consented  to  accompany  Lucille  to 
Malines. 

Meanwhile,  cheerless  and  dull  had  passed  the  time  to  St. 
Amand  ;  he  was  perpetually  asking  Madame  le  Tisseur  what 
hour  it  was  ;  it  was  almost  his  only  question.  There  seemed 
to  him  no  sun  in  the  heavens,  no  freshness  in  the  air,  and  he 
even  forbore  his  favorite  music  ;  the  instrument  had  lost  its 
sweetness  since  Lucille  was  not  by  to  listen. 

It  was  natural  that  the  gossips  of  Malines  should  feel  some 
envy  at  the  marriage  Lucille  was  about  to  make  with  one 
whose  competence  report  had  exaggerated  into  prodigal  wealth, 
whose  birth  had  been  elevated  from  the  respectable  to  the 
noble,  and  whose  handsome  person  was  clothed,  by  the  inter- 
est excited  by  his  misfortune,  with  the  beauty  of  Antinous. 
Even  that  misfortune,  which  ought  to  have  levelled  all  dis- 
tinctions, was  not  sufficient  to  check  the  general  envy  ;  per- 
haps to  some  of  the  damsels  of  Malines  blindness  in  a  husband 
would  not  have  seemed  an  unwelcome  infirmity  !  But  there 
was  one  in  whom  this  envy  rankled  with  a  peculiar  sting  ;  it 
was  the  beautiful,  the  all-conquering  Julie.  That  the  humble, 
the  neglected  Lucille  should  be  preferred  to  her  ;  that  Lucille, 
whose  existence  was  well-nigh  forgot  beside  Julie's,  should  be- 
come thus  suddenly  of  importance,  that  there  should  be  one 
person  in  the  world,  and  that  person  young,  rich,  handsome, 
to  whom  she  was  less  than  nothing,  when  weighed  in  the  bal- 
ance with  Lucille,  mortified  to  the  quick  a  vanity  that  had 
never  till  then  received  a  wound.  "  It  is  well,"  she  would  say 
with  a  bitter  jest,  "  that  Lucille's  lover  is  blind.  To  be  the  one 
it  is  necessary  to  be  the  other  !  " 

During  Lucille's  absence  she  had  been  constantly  in  Madame 
le  Tisseur's  house  ;  indeed,  Lucille  had  prayed  her  to  be  so. 
She  had  sought,  with  an  industry  that  astonished  herself,  to 
supply  Lucille's  place,  and  among  the  strange  contradictions 
of  human  nature,  she  had  learned,  during  her  efforts  to  please, 
to  love  the  object  of  those  efforts — as  much  at  least  as  she  was 
capable  of  loving. 

She  conceived  a  positive  hatred  to  Lucille  ;  she  persisted  in 
imagining  that  nothing  but  the  accident  of  first  acquaintance 
had  deprived  her  of  a  conquest  with  which  she  persuaded  her- 
self her  happiness  had  become  connected.  Had  St.  Amand 
never  loved  Lucille  and  proposed  to  Julie,  his  misfortune 
would  have  made  her  reject  him,  despite  his  wealth  and  his 
youth  ;  but  to  be  Lucille's  lover,  and  a  conquest  to  be  won 


44  THE    PILGRIMS   OF    THE    RHINE. 

from  Lucille,  raised  him  instantly  to  an  importance  not  his 
own.  Safe,  however,  in  his  affliction,  the  arts  and  beauty  of 
Julie  fell  harmless  on  the  fidelity  of  St.  Atnand.  Nay,  he 
liked  her  less  than  ever,  for  it  seemed  an  impertinence  in  any 
one  to  counterfeit  the  anxiety  and  watchfulness  of  Lucille. 

"  It  is  time,  surely  it  is  time,  Madame  le  Tisseur,  that 
Lucille  should  return !  She  might  have  sold  all  the  lace  in 
Malines  by  this  time,"  said  St.  Amand,  one  day  peevishly. 

"  Patience,  my  dear  friend,  patience  ;  perhaps  she  may 
return  to-morrow." 

"  To-morrow!  let  me  see,  it  is  only  six  o'clock — only  six, 
you  are  sure?" 

"  Just  five,  dear  Eugene,  shall  I  read  to  you  ?  This  is  a  new 
book  from  Paris  ;  it  has  made  a  great  noise,"  said  Julie. 

"  You  are  very  kind,  but  I  will  not  trouble  you." 

"  It  is  anything  but  trouble." 

"  In  a  word,  then,  I  would  rather  not." 

"  Oh,  that  he  could  see  1 "  thought  Julie ;  "  would  I  not 
punish  him  for  this  !  " 

"  I  hear  carriage  wheels ;  who  can  be  passing  this  way  ? 
Surely  it  is  the  voiturier  from  Bruxelles,"  said  St.  Amand, 
starting  up;  "it  is  his  day — his  hour  too.  No,  no,  it  is  a 
lighter  vehicle,"  and  he  sank  down  listlessly  on  his  seat. 

Nearer  and  nearer  rolled  the  wheels ;  they  turned  the 
corner  ;  they  stopped  at  the  lowly  door  ;  and,  overcome,  over- 
joyed, Lucille  was  elapsed  to  the  bosom  of  St.  Amand. 

"  Stay,"  said  she,  blushing,  as  she  recovered  her  self-pos- 
session, and  turned  to  Le  Kain  ;  "  pray  pardon  me,  sir.  Dear 
Eugene,  1  have  brought  with  me  one  who,  by  God's  blessing, 
may  yet  restore  you  to  sight." 

"  We  must  not  be  sanguine,  my  child,"  said  Le  Kain  ;  "any- 
thing is  better  than  disappointment." 

To  close  this  part  of  my  story,  dear  Gertrude,  Le  Kain 
examined  St.  Amand,  and  the  result  of  the  examination  was 
a  confident  belief  in  the  probability  of  a  cure.  St.  Amand 
gladly  consented  to  the  experiment  of  an  operation  ;  it  suc- 
ceeded— the  blind  man  saw  !  Oh  !  what  were  Lucille's  feelings, 
what  her  emotion,  what  her  joy,  when  she  found  the  object  of 
her  pilgrimage — of  her  prayers — fulfilled  !  That  joy  was  so 
intense,  that  in  the  eternal  alternations  of  human  life  she 
might  have  foretold  from  its  excess  how  bitter  the  sorrows 
fated  to  ensue. 

As  soon  as  by  degrees  the  patient's  new  sense  became  rec- 


THE    PILGRIMS    OF    THE    RHINE.  4$ 

onciled  to  the  light,  his  first,  his  only  demand,  was  for  Lucille. 
"  No,  let  me  not  see  her  alone,  let  me  see  her  in  the 
midst  of  you  all,  that  I  may  convince  you  that  the  heart 
is  never  mistaken  in  its  instincts."  With  a  fearful,  a  sink- 
ing presentiment,  Lucille  yielded  to  the  request,  to  which 
the  impetuous  St.  Amancl  would  hear  indeed  no  denial.  The 
father,  the  mother,  Julie,  Lucille,  Julie's  younger  sisters, 
assembled  in  the  little  parlor ;  the  door  opened,  and  St. 
Amand  stood  hesitating  on  the  threshold.  One  look  around 
sufficed  to  him  ;  his  face  brightened,  he  uttered  a  cry  of  joy. 
"Lucille!  Lucille!"  he  exclaimed,  "it  is  you,  I  know  \\.,you 
only  !  "  He  sprang  forward  and  fell  at  the  feet  of  Julie! 

Flushed,  elated,  triumphant,  Julie  bent  upon  him  her  spark- 
ling eyes  ;  she  did  not  undeceive  him. 

"You  are  wrong,  you  mistake,"  said  Madame  le  Tisseur, 
in  confusion  ;  "that  is  her  cousin  Julie — this  is  your  Lucille." 

St.  Amand  rose,  turned,  saw  Lucille,  and  at  that  moment 
she  wished  herself  in  her  grave.  Surprise,  mortification,  dis- 
appointment, almost  dismay,  were  depicted  in  his  gaze.  He 
had  been  haunting  his  prison-house  with  dreams,  and,  now  set 
free,  he  felt  how  unlike  they  were  to  the  truth.  Too  new  to 
observation  to  read  the  woe,  the  despair,  the  lapse  and  shrink- 
ing of  the  whole  frame,  that  his  look  occasioned  Lucille,  he 
yet  felt,  when  the  first  shock  of  his  surprise  was  over,  that  it 
was  not  thus  he  should  thank  her  who  had  restored  him  to 
sight.  He  hastened  to  redeem  his  error — ah  !  how  could  it  be 
redeemed  ? 

From  that  hour  all  Lucille's  happiness  was  at  an  end  ;  her 
fairy  palace  was  shattered  in  the  dust ;  the  magician's  wand 
was  broken  up;  the  Ariel  was  given  to  the  winds;  and  the 
bright  enchantment  no  longer  distinguished  the  land  she  lived 
in  from  the  rest  of  the  barren  world.  It  was  true  that  St. 
Amand's  words  were  kind  ;  it  is  true  that  he  remembered  with 
the  deepest  gratitude  all  she  had  done  in  his  behalf ;  it  is  true 
that  he  forced  himself  again  and  again  to  say:  "She  is  my 
betrothed — my  benefactress  !  "  and  he  cursed  himself  to  think 
that  the  feelings  he  had  entertained  for  her  were  fled.  Where 
was  the  passion  of  his  words  ?  Where  the  ardor  of  his  tone  ? 
Where  that  play  and  light  of  countenance  which  her  step,  her 
voice,  could  formerly  call  forth  ?  When  they  were  alone  he 
was  embarrassed  and  constrained,  and  almost  cold  ;  his  hand 
no  longer  sought  hers  ;  his  soul  no  longer  missed  her  if  she  was 
absent  a  moment  from  his  side.  When  in  theic  household 
circle  he  seemed  visibly  more  at  ease  ;  but  did  his  eyes  fasten 


46  THE    PILGRIMS    OF   THE    RHINE. 

upon  her  who  had  opened  them  to  the  day  ?  Did  they  not 
wander  at  every  interval  with  a  too  eloquent  admiration  to 
the  blushing  and  radiant  face  of  the  exultant  Julie?  This 
was  not,  you  will  believe,  suddenly  perceptible  in  one 
day  or  one  week,  but  every  day  it  was  perceptible  more 
and  more.  Yet  still — bewitched,  ensnared,  as  St.  Amand 
was — he  never  perhaps  would  have  been  guilty  of  an  in- 
fidelity that  he  strove  with  the  keenest  remorse  to  wrestle 
against,  had  it  not  been  for  the  fatal  contrast,  at  the  first 
moment  of  his  gushing  enthusiasm,  which  Julie  had  pre- 
sented to  Lucille  ;  but  for  that  he  would  have  formed  no, 
previous  idea  of  real  and  living  beauty  to  aid  the  disappoint- 
ment of  his  imaginings  and  his  dreams.  He  would  have  seen 
Lucille  young  and  graceful,  and  with  eyes  beaming  affection, 
contrasted  only  by  the  wrinkled  countenance  and  bended 
frame  of  her  parents,  and  she  would  have  completed  her  con- 
quest over  him  before  he  had  discovered  that  she  was  less 
beautiful  than  others  ;  nay,  more — that  infidelity  never  could 
have  lasted  above  the  first  few  days,  if  the  vain  and  heartless 
object  of  it  had  not  exerted  every  art,  all  the  power  and 
witchery  of  her  beauty,  to  cement  and  continue  it.  The 
unfortunate  Lucille,  so  susceptible  to  the  slightest  change  in 
those  she  loved,  so  diffident  of  herself,  so  proud  too  in  that 
diffidence — no  longer  necessary,  no  longer  missed,  no  longer 
loved — could  not  bear  to  endure  the  galling  comparison 
between  the  past  and  the  present.  -  She  fled  uncomplainingly 
to  her  chamber  to  indulge  her  tears,  and  thus,  unhappily, 
absent  as  her  father  generally  was  during  the  day,  and  busied 
as  h6r  mother  was  either  at  work  or  in  household  matters,  she 
left  Julie  a  thousand  opportunities  to  complete  the  power  she 
had  begun  to  wield  over — no,  not  the  heart ! — the  senses  of  St. 
Amand  !  Yet,  still  not  suspecting,  in  the  open  generosity  of  her 
mind,  the  whole  extent  of  her  affliction,  poor  Lucille  buoyed 
herself  at  times  with  the  hope  that  when  once  married,  when, 
once  in  that  intimacy  of  friendship,  the  unspeakable  love  she 
felt  for  him  could  disclose  itself  with  less  restraint  than  at 
present,  she  should  perhaps  regain  a  heart  which  had  been  so 
devotedly  hers,  that  she  could  not  think  that  without  a  fault 
it  was  irrevocably  gone  :  on  that  hope  she  anchored  all  the 
little  happiness  that  remained  to  her.  And  still  St.  Amand 
pressed  their  marriage,  but  in  what  different  tones!  In  fact, 
he  wished  to  preclude  from  himself  the  possibility  of  a  deeper 
ingratitude  than  that  which  he  had  incurred  already.  He 
vainly  thought  that  the  broken  reed  of  love  might  be  bound 


THE    PILGRIMS    OF    THE    RHINE.  47 

up  and  strengthened  by  the  ties  of  duty  ;  and  at  least  he  was 
anxious  that  his  hand,  his  fortune,  his  esteem,  his  gratitude, 
should  give  to  Lucille  the  only  recompense  it  was  now  in  his 
power  to  bestow.  Meanwhile  left  alone  so  often  with  Julie, 
and  Julie  bent  on  achieving  the  last  triumph  over  his  heart, 
St.  Amand  was  gradually  preparing  a  far  different  reward,  a  far 
different  return  for  her  to  whom  he  owed  so  incalculable  a  debt. 

There  was  a  garden,  behind  the  house,  in  which  there  was 
a  small  arbor,  where  often  in  the  summer  evenings,  Eugene 
and  Lucille  had  sat  together — hours  never  to  return  !  One 
day  she  heard  from  her  own  chamber,  where  she  sat  mourning, 
the  sound  of  St.  Amand's  flute  swelling  gently  from  that  be- 
loved and  consecrated  bower.  She  wept  as  she  heard  it,  and 
the  memories  that  the  music  bore,  softening  and  endearing 
his  image,  she  began  to  reproach  herself  that  she  had  yielded 
so  often  to  the  impulse  of  her  wounded  feelings  ;  that  chilled, 
by  his  coldness,  she  had  left  him  so  often  to  himself,  and  had 
not  sufficiently  dared  to  tell  him  of  that  affection  which,  in  her 
modest  self-depreciation,  constituted  her  only  pretension  to 
his  love.  "  Perhaps  he  is  alone  now,"  she  thought ;  "  the  air 
too  is  «ne  which  he  knows  that  I  love":  and  with  her  heart 
in  her  step,  she  stole  from  the  house  and  sought  the  arbor. 
She  had  scarce  turned  from  her  chamber  when  the  flute 
ceased  ;  as  she  neared  the  arbor  she  heard  voices — Julie's 
voice  in  grief,  St.  Amand's  in  consolation.  A  dread  forebod- 
ing seized  her  ;  her  feet  clung  rooted  to  the  earth. 

"  Yes,  marry  her — forget  me,"  said  Julie  ;  "in  a  few  days 
you  will  be  another's,  and  I,  I — forgive  me,  Eugene,  forgive 
me  that  I  have  disturbed  your  happiness.  I  am  punished  suf- 
ficiently— my  heart  will  break,  but  it  will  break  in  loving  you  ": 
sobs  choked  Julie's  voice. 

"  Oh,  speak  not  thus,"  said  St.  Amand.  "  I,  /  only  am  to 
blame  ;  I,  false  to  both,  to  both  ungrateful.  Oh,  from  the 
hour  that  these  eyes  opened  upon  you  I  drank  in  a  new  life  ; 
the  sun  itself  to  me  was  less  wonderful  than  your  beauty. 
But — but — let  me  forget  that  hour.  What  do  I  not  owe  to 
Lucille  ?  I  shall  be  wretched — I  shall  deserve  to  be  so  ;  for 
shall  I  not  think,  Julie,  that  I  have  embittered  your  life  with 
our  ill-fated  love  ?  But  all  that  I  can  give — my  hand — my 
home — my  plighted  faith — must  be  hers.  Nay,  Julie,  nay — 
why  that  look  ?  Could  I  act  otherwise  ?  Can  I  dream  other- 
wise ?  Whatever  the  sacrifice,  must  I  not  render  it  ?  Ah,  what 
do  I  owe  to  Lucille,  were  it  only  for  the  thought  that  but  for 
her  I  might  never  have  seen  thee  !  " 


48  THE    PILGRIMS   OF    THE    RHINE. 

Lucille  stayed  to  hear  no  more  ;  with  the  same  soft  step  as 
that  which  had  borne  her  within  hearing  of  these  fatal  words, 
she  turned  back  once  more  to  her  desolate  chamber. 

That  evening,  as  St.  Amand  was  sitting  alone  in  his  apart- 
ment, he  heard  a  gentle  knock  at  the  door.  "  Come  in,"  he 
said,  and  Lucille  entered.  He  started  in  some  confusion,  and 
would  have  taken  her  hand,  but  she  gently  repulsed  him.  She 
took  a  seat  opposite  to  him,  and  looking  down,  thus  addressed 
him  : 

"  My  dear  Eugene,  that  is  Monsieur  St.  Amand,  I  have 
something  on  my  mind  that  I  think  it  better  to  speak  at  once  ; 
and  if  I  do  not  exactly  express  what  I  would  wish  to  say,  you 
must  not  be  offended  with  Lucille  :  it  is  not  an  easy  matter  t-> 
put  into  words  what  one  feels  deeply."  Coloring,  and  sus- 
pecting something  of  the  truth,  St.  Amand  would  have  broken 
in  upon  her  here  ;  but  she,  with  a  gentle  impatience,  motioned 
him  to  be  silent,  and  continued  : 

"  You  know  that  when  you  once  loved  me,  I  used  to  tell  you 
that  you  would  cease  to  do  so,  could  you  see  how  undeserving 
I  was  of  your  attachment  ?  I  did  not  deceive  myself,  Eugene  ; 
I  always  felt  assured  that  such  would  be  the  case,  that  your 
love  for  me  necessarily  rested  on  your  affliction  :  but  for  all 
that,  I  never  at  least  had  a  dream,  or  a  desire,  but  for  your 
happiness  ;  and  God  knows,  that  .if  again,  by  walking  bare- 
footed; not  to  Cologne,  but  to  Rome — to  the  end  of  the  world, 
I  could  save  you  from  a  much  less  misfortune  than  that  of 
blindness,  I  would  cheerfully  do  it  ;  yes,  evm  though  I  might 
foretell  all  the  while  that,  on  my  return,  you  would  speak  to 
me  coldly,  think  of  me  lightly,  and  that  the  penalty  to  me 
would — would  be — what  it  has  been  !  "  Here  Lucille  wiped  a 
few  natural  tears  from  her  eyes  ;  St.  Amand,  struck  to  the 
heart,  covered  his  face  with  his  hands  without  the  courage  to 
interrupt  her.  Lucille  continued  : 

"  That  which  I  foresaw  has  come  to  pass ;  I  am  no  longer 
to  you  what  I  once  was^  when  you  could  clothe  this  poor  form 
and  this  homely  face  with  a  beauty  they  did  not  possess ;  you 
would  wed  me  still,  it  is  true,  but  I  am  proud,  Eugene,  and 
cannot  stoop  to  gratitude  where  I  once  had  love.  1  am  not  so 
unjust  as  to  blame  you  ;  the  change  was  natural,  was  inevi- 
table. I  should  have  steeled  myself  more  against  it  ;  but  I  am 
now  resigned  :  we  must  part ;  you  love  Julie — that  too  is 
natural — and  she  loves  you  ;  ah  !  what  also  more  in  the  prob- 
able course  of  events  ?  Julie  loves  you,  not  yet,  perhaps,  so 
much  as  I  did,  but  then  she  has  not  known  you  as  I  have,  and 


THE    PILGRIMS   OF    THE    RHINE.  49 

she  whose  whole  life  has  been  triumph,  cannot  feel  the  grati- 
tude I  felt  at  fancying  myself  loved  ;  but  this  will  come — God 
grant  it  !  Farewell,  then,  forever,  dear  Eugene  ;  I  leave  you 
when  you  no  longer  want  me ;  you  are  now  independent  of 
Lucille  ;  wherever  you  go,  a  thousand  hereafter  can  supply 
my  place — farewell  !  " 

She  rose,  as  she  said  this,  to  leave  the  room  ;  but  St.  Amand 
seizing  her  hand,  which  she  in  vain  endeavored  to  withdraw 
from  his  clasp,  poured  forth  incoherently,  passionately,  his  re- 
proaches on  himself,  his  eloquent  persuasions  against  her 
resolution. 

"I  confess,"  said  he,  "  that  I  have  been  allured  for  a  mo- 
ment ;  I  confess  that  Julie's  beauty  made  me  less  sensible  to 
your  stronger,  your  holier,  oh  !  far,  far  holier  title  to  my  love  ! 
But  forgive  me,  dearest  Lucille  ;  already  I  return  to  you,  to 
all  I  once  felt  for  you  ;  make  me  not  curse  the  blessing  of 
sight  that  I  owe  to  you.  You  must  not  leave  me  ;  never  can  we 
two  part ;  try  me,  only  try  me,  and  if  ever,  hereafter,  my  heart 
wander  from  you,  then,  Lucille,  leave  me  to  my  remorse  !  " 

Even  at  that  moment  Lucille  did  not  yield  ;  she  felt  that  his 
prayer  was  but  the  enthusiasm  of  the  hour  ;  she  felt  that  there 
was  a  virtue  in  her  pride;  that  to  leave  him  was  a  duty  to 
herself.  In  vain  he  pleaded  ;  in  vain  were  his  embraces,  his 
prayers  ;  in  vain  he  reminded  her  of  their  plighted  troth,  of 
her  aged  parents,  whose  happiness  had  become  wrapt  in  her 
union  with  him  :  "  How — even  were  it  as  you  wrongly  be- 
lieve— how,  in  honor  to  them,  can  I  desert  you,  can  I  wed 
another? " 

"  Trust  that,  trust  all,  to  me,"  answered  Lucille  ;  "  your 
honor  shall  be  my  care,  none  shall  blame  you  ;  only  do  not  let 
your  marriage  with  Julie  be  celebrated  here  before  their  eyes  : 
that  is  all  I  ask,  all  they  can  expect.  God  bless  you  !  Do  not 
fancy  I  shall  be  unhappy,  for  whatever  happiness  the  world 
gives  you,  shall  I  not  have  contributed  to  bestow  it  ?  And 
with  that  thought,  I  am  above  compassion." 

She  glided  from  his  arms,  and  left  him  to  a  solitude  more 
bitter  even  that  of  blindness  ;  that  very  night  Lucille  sought 
her  mother  ;  to  her  she  confided  all.  I  pass  over  the  reasons 
she  urged,  the  arguments  she  overcame  ;  she  conquered  rather 
than  convinced,  and  leaving  to  Madame  le  Tisseur  the  painful 
task  of  breaking  to  her  father  her  unalterable  resolutiou,  she 
quitted  Malinesthe  next  morning,  and  with  a  heart  too  honest 
to  be  utterly  without  comfort,  paid  that  visit  to  her  aunt  which 
had  been  so  long  deferred. 


5O  THE    PILGRIMS   OF    THE    RHINE. 

The  pride  of  Lucille's  parents  prevented  them  from  re. 
preaching  St.  Amand.  He  could  not  bear,  however,  their  cold 
and  altered  looks  ;  he  left  their  house  ;  and  though  for  several 
days  he  would  not  even  see  Julie,  yet  her  beauty  and  her  art 
gradually  resumed  their  empire  over  him.  They  were  married 
at  Courtroi,  and  to  the  joy  of  the  vain  Julie,  departed  to  the 
gay  metropolis  of  France.  But,  before  their  departure,  before 
his  marriage,  St.  Amand  endeavored  to  appease  his  conscience 
by  obtaining  for  Monsieur  le  Tisseur  a  much  more  lucrative 
and  honorable  office  than  that  he  now  held.  Rightly  judging 
that  Malines  could  no  longer  be  a  pleasant  residence  for  them, 
and  much  less  for  Lucille,  the  duties  of  the  post  were  to  be 
fulfilled  in  another  town  ;  and  knowing  that  Monsieur  le  Tis- 
seur's  delicacy  would  revolt  at  receiving  such  a  favor  from  his 
hands,  he  kept  the  nature  of  his  negotiation  a  close  secret,  and 
suffered  the  honest  citizen  to  believe  that  his  own  merits  alone 
had  entitled  him  to  so  unexpected  a  promotion. 

Time  went  on.  This  quiet  and  simple  history  of  humble 
affections  took  its  date  in  a  stormy  epoch  of  the  world — the 
dawning  Revolution  of  France.  The  family  of  Lucille  had 
been  but  little  more  than  a  year  settled  in  their  new  residence, 
when  Dumouriez  led  his  army  into  the  Netherlands.  But 
how  meanwhile  had  that  year  passed  for  Lucille  ?  I  have  said 
that  her  spirit  was  naturally  high  ;  that  though  so  tender,  she 
was  not  weak  ;  her  very  pilgrimage  to  Cologne  alone,  and  at 
the  timid  age  of  seventeen,  proved  that  there  was  a  strength 
in  her  nature  no  less  than  a  devotion  in  her  love.  The  sacri- 
fice she  had  made  brought  its  own  reward.  She  believed 
St.  Amand  was  happy,  and  she  would  not  give  way  to  the  self- 
ishness of  grief  ;  she  had  still  duties  to  perform  ;  she  could 
still  comfort  her  parents  and  cheer  their  age ;  she  could 
still  be  all  the  world  to  them  :  she  felt  this,  and  was  consoled. 
Only  once  during  the  year  had  she  heard  of  "Julie  ;  she  had 
been  seen  by  a  mutual  friend  at  Paris,  gay,  brilliant,  courted, 
and  admired  ;  of  St.  Amand  she  heard  nothing. 

My  tale,  dear  Gertrude,  does  not  lead  me  through  the  harsh 
scenes  of  war.  I  do  not  tell  you  of  the  slaughter  and  the 
siege,  and  the  blood  that  inundated  those  fair  lands — the  great 
battlefield  of  Europe.  The  people  of  the  Netherlands  in 
general  were  with  the  cause  of  Dumouriez,  but  the  town  in 
which  Le  Tisseur  dwelt  offered  some  faint  resistance  to  his 
arms.  Le  Tisseur  himself,  despite  his  age,  girded  on  his 
sword  ;  the  town  was  carried,  and  the  fierce  and  licentious 
troops  of  the  conqueror  poured,  flushed  with  their  easy  victory, 


THE    PILGRIMS   OF    THE    RHINE.  Ct 

•I 

through  its  streets.  Le  Tisseur's  house  was  filled  with 
drunken  and  rude  troopers  ;  Lucille  herself  trembled  in  the 
fierce  gripe  of  one  of  those  dissolute  soldiers,  more  bandit 
than  soldier,  whom  the  subtle  Dumouriez  had  united  to  his 
army,  and  by  whose  blood  he  so  often  saved  that  of  his  nobler 
band  ;  her  shrieks,  her  cries  were  vain,  when  suddenly  the 
troopers  gave  way  ;  "  The  Captain  !  brave  Captain  !  "  was 
shouted  forth  ;  the  insolent  soldier,  felled  by  a  powerful  arm, 
sunk  senseless  at  the  feet  of  Lucille  ;  and  a  glorious  form, 
towering  above  its  fellows,  even  through  its  glittering  garb, 
even  in  that  dreadful  hour,  remembered  at  a  glance  by  Lucille, 
stood  at  her  side  ;  her  protector — her  guardian  !  Thus  once 
more  she  beheld  St.  Amand  ! 

The  house  was  cleared  in  an  instant  ;  the  door  barred. 
Shouts,  groans,  wild  snatches  of  exulting  song,  the  clang  of 
arms,  the  tramp  of  horses,  the  hurrying  footsteps,  the  deep 
music,  sounded  loud,  and  blended  terribly  without.  Lucille 
heard  them  not ;  she  was  on  that  breast  which  never  should 
have  deserted  her. 

Effectually  to  protect  his  friends,  St.  Amand  took  up  his 
quarters  at  their  house  ;  and  for  two  days  he  was  once  more 
under  the  same  roof  as  Lucille.  He  never  recurred  volunta- 
rily to  Julie  ;  he  answered  Lucille's  timid  inquiry  after  her 
health,  briefly,  and  with  coldness,  but  he  spoke  with  all  the 
enthusiasm  of  a  long-pent  and  ardent  spirit  of  the  new  pro- 
fession he  had  embraced.  Glory  seemed  now  to  be  his  only 
mistress ;  and  the  vivid  delusion  of  the  first  bright  dreams  of 
the  Revolution  filled  his  mind,  broke  from  his  tongue,  and 
lighted  up  those  dark  eyes  which  Lucille  had  redeemed  to  day. 

She  saw  him  depart  at  the  head  of  hi^  troop  ;  she  saw  his 
proud  crest  glancing  in  the  sun  ;  she  saw  his  steed  winding 
through  the  narrow  street  ;  she  saw  that  his  last  glance  re- 
verted to  her,  where  she  stood  at  the  door  ;  and,  as  he  waved 
his  adieu,  she  fancied  that  there  was  on  his  face  that  look  of 
deep  and  grateful  tenderness  which  reminded  her  of  the  one 
bright  epoch  of  her  life. 

She  was  right  ;  St.  Amand  had  long  since  in  bitterness  re- 
pented of  a  transient  infatuation,  had  long  since  distinguished 
the  true  Florimel  from  the  false,  and  felt  that,  in  Julie,  Lu- 
cille''s  wrongs  were  avenged.  But  in  the  hurry  and  heat  of 
war  he  plunged  that  regret — the  keenest  of  ail — which  embod- 
ies the  bitter  words,  "  TOO  LATE  "  ! 

Years  passed  away,  and  in  the  resumed  tranquillity  of  Lu- 
cille's life,  the  brilliant  apparition  of  St.  Amand  appeared  as 


$ 2  THE    PILGRIMS   OF    THE    RHINE. 

something  dreamed  of,  not  seen.  The  star  of  Napoleon  had 
risen  above  the  horizon  ;  the  romance  of  his  early  career  had 
commenced  ;  and  the  campaign-of  Egypt  had  been  the  herald 
of  those  brilliant  and  meteoric  successes  which  flashed  forth 
from  the  gloom  of  the  Revolution  of  France. 

You  are  aware,  dear  Gertrude,  how  many  in  the  French  as 
well  as  the  English  troops,  returned  home  from  Egypt,  blinded 
with  the  ophthalmia  of  that  arid  soil.  Some  of  the  young  men 
in  Lucille's  town,  who  had  joined  Napoleon's  army,  came  back 
darkened  by  that  fearful  affliction,  and  Lucille's  alms,  and  Lu- 
cille's aid,  and  Lucille's  sweet  voice,  were  ever  at  hand  for 
those  poor  sufferers,  whose  common  misfortune  touched  so 
thrilling  a  chord  of  her  heart. 

Her  father  was  now  dead,  and  she  had  only  her  mother  to 
cheer  amidst  the  ills  of  age.  As  one  evening  they  sat  at  work 
together,  Madame  le  Tisseur  said,  after  a  pause  : 

"  I  wish,  dear  Lucille,  thou  couldst  be  persuaded  to  marry 
Justin  ;  he  loves  thee  well,  and  now  that  thou  art  yet  young, 
and  hast  many  years  before  thee,  thou  shouldst  remember  thai 
when  I  die  thou  wilt  be  alone." 

"  Ah,  cease,  dearest  mother,  I  never  can  marry  now  ;  and 
as  for  love — once  taught  in  the  bitter  school  in  which  I  have 
learned  the  knowledge  of  myself,  I  cannot  be  deceived  again." 

"  My  Lucille,  you  do  not  know  yourself  :  never  was  woman 
loved,  if  Justin  does  not  love  you  ;  and  never  did  lover  feel 
with  more  real  warmth  how  worthily  he  loved." 

And  this  was  true  ;  and  not  of  Justin  alone,  for  Lucille's 
modest  virtues,  her  kindly  temper,  and  a  certain  undulating 
and  feminine  grace,  which  accompanied  all  her  movements, 
had  secured  her- as  many-conquests  as  if  she  had  been  beauti- 
ful. She  had  rejected  all  offers  of  marriage  with  a  shudder  ; 
without  even  the  throb  of  a  flattered  vanity.  One  memory, 
sadder,  was  also  dearer,  to  her  than  all  things  ;  and  something 
sacred  in  its  recollections  made  her  deem  it  even  a  crime  to 
think  of  effacing  the  past  by  a  new  affection. 

"  I  believe,"  continued  Madame  le  Tisseur  angrily,  "  that 
thou  still  thinkest  fondly  of  him,  from  whom  only  in  the  world 
thou  couldst  have  experienced  ingratitude." 

"  Nay,  mother,"  said  Lucille,  with  a  blush  and  a  slight  sigh, 
"  Eugene  is  married  to  another." 

While  thus  conversing,  they  heard  a  gentle  and  timid  knock 
at  the  door — the  latch  was  lifted.  "  This,"  said  the  rough 
voice  of  a  commissionaire  of  the  town,  "-this,  Monsieur,  is  the 
house  of  Madame  le  Tisseur,  and  voila  mademoiselle  !"  A  tall 


THE    PILGRIMS   OF    THE    RHINE.  53 

figure,  with  a  shade  over  his  eyes,  and  wrapped  irr  a  long 
military  cloak,  stood  in  the  room.  A  thrill  shot  across  Lucille's 
heart.  He  stretched  out  his  arms  :  "  Lucille,"  said  that  mel- 
ancholy voice,  which  had  made  the  music  of  her  first  youth — 
"  where  art  thou,  Lucille  ?  Alas  !  she  does  not  recognize  St. 
Amand." 

Thus  was  it,  indeed.  By  a  singular  fatality,  the  burning 
suns  and  the  sharp  dust  of  the  plains  of  Egypt  had  smitten 
the  young  soldier,  in  the  flush  of  his  career,  with  a  second — 
and  this  time  with  an  irremediable — blindness  !  He  had  re- 
turned to  France  to  find  his  hearth  lonely  :  Julie  was  no  more 
— a  sudden  fever  had  cut  her  off  in  the  midst  of  youth  ;  and 
he  had  sought  his  way  to  Lucille's  house,  to  see  if  one  hope 
yet  remained  to  him  in  the  world  ! 

And  when,  days  afterwards,  humbly  and  sadly  he  re-urged 
a  former  suit,  did  Lucille  shut  her  heart  to  its  prayer  ?  Did  her 
pride  remember  its  wound  ?  Did  she  revert  to  his  desertion  ? 
Did  she  reply  to  the  whisper  of  her  yearning  love  "thou  hast 
been  before  forsaken  "  ?  That  voice,  and  those  darkened  eyes, 
plead  to  her  with  a  pathos  not  to  be  resisted  ;  "  I  am  once 
more  necessary  to  him,"  was  all  her  thought ;  "  if  I  reject  him, 
who  will  tend  him  ?  "  In  that  thought  was  the  motive  of  her 
conduct;  in  that  thought  gushed  back  upon  her  soul  all  the 
springs  of  checked,  but  unconquered,  unconquerable  love  ! 
In  that  thought,  she  stood  beside  him  at  the  altar,  and  pledged, 
with  a  yet  holier  devotion  than  she  might  have  felt  of  yore,  the 
vow  of  her  imperishable  truth. 

And  Lucille  found,  in  the  future,  a  reward  which  the  com- 
mon world  could  never  comprehend.  With  his  blindness  re- 
turned all  the  feelings  she  had  first  awakened  in  St.  Amand's 
solitary  heart ;  again  he  yearned  for  her  step  ;  again  he  missed 
even  a  moment's  absence  from  his  side  ;  again  her  voice  chased 
the  shadosv  from  his  brow  ;  and  in  her  presence  was  a  sense 
of  shelter  and  of  sunshine.  He  no  longer  sighed  for  the  blessing 
he  had  lost  ;  he  reconciled  himself  to  fate,  and  entered  into 
that  serenity  of  mood  which  mostly  characterizes  the  blind. 
Perhaps  after  we  have  seen  the  actual  world,  and  experienced 
its  hollow  pleasures,  we  can  resign  ourselves  the  better  to  its 
exclusion  ;  and  as  the  cloister,  which  repels  the  ardor  of  our 
hope,  is  sweet  to  our  remembrance,  so  the  darkness  loses  its 
terror,  when  experience  has  wearied  us  with  the  glare  and 
travail  of  the  day.  It  was  something,  too,  as  they  advanced 
in  life,  to  feel  the  chains  that  bound  him  to  Lucille  strength- 
ening daily,  and  to  cherish  in  his  overflowing  heart  the  sweet- 


54  THE    PILGRIMS    OF    THE    RHINE. 

ness  of  increasing  gratitude  ;  It  was  something  that  he  could 
not  see  years  wrinkle  that  open  brow,  or  dim  the  tenderness 
of  that  touching  smile  ;  it  was  something  that  to  him  she  was 
beyond  the  reach  of  time,  and  preserved  to  the  verge  of  a 
grave  (which  received  them  both  within  a  few  days  of  each 
other)  in  all  the  bloom  of  her  unwithering  affection,  in  all  the 
freshness  of  a  heart  that  never  could  grow  old  ! 

Gertrude,  who  had  broken  in  upon  Trevylyan's  story  by  a 
thousand  anxious  interruptions,  and  a  thousand  pretty  apolo- 
gies for  interrupting,  was  charmed  with  a  tale  in  which  true 
love  was  made  happy  at  last,  although  she  did  not  forgive  St. 
Amand  his  ingratitude,  and  although  she  declared,  with  a 
critical  shake  of  the  head,  that  "it  was  very  unnatural  that 
the  mere  beauty  of  Julie,  or  the  mere  want  of  it  in  Lucille, 
should  have  produced  such  an  effect  upon  him,  if  he  had  ever 
really  loved  Lucille  in  his.  blindness." 

As  they  passed  through  Malines,  the  town  assumed  an 
interest  in  Gertrude's  eyes,  to  which  it  scarcely  of  itself  was 
entitled.  She  looked  wistfully  at  the  broad  market-place  ;  at 
a  corner  of  which  was  one  of  those  out-of-door  groups  of 
quiet  and  noiseless  revellers,  which  Dutch  art  has  raised  from 
the  Familiar  to  the  Picturesque  ;  and  then  glancing  to  the 
tower  of  St.  Rembauld,  she  fancied,  amidst  the  silence  of 
noon,  that  shekel  heard  the  plaintive  cry  of  the  blind  orphan  : 
"  Ficlo,  Fido,  why  hast  thou  deserted  me  ? " 


CHAPTER  V. 

ROTTERDAM. — THE    CHARACTER    OF    THE    DUTCH. — THEIR    RE- 

SEMBLANCE      TO      THE      GERMANS. A       DISPUTE       BETWEEN 

VANE      AND     TREVYLYAN,      AFTER     THE     MANNER       OF     THE 
ANCIENT     NOVELISTS,    AS     TO    WHICH     IS     PREFERABLE,  THE 

LIFE     OF     ACTION    OR    THE     LIFE    OF    REPOSE. TREVYLYAN'S 

CONTRAST    BETWEEN    LITERARY    AMBITION    AND    THE    AMBI- 
TION OF    PUBLIC    LIFE. 

OUR  travellers  arrived  at  Rotterdam  on  a  bright  and  sunny 
day.  There  is  a  cheerfulness  about  the  operations  of  Com- 
merce— a  life,  a  bustle,  an  action,  which  always  exhilarate  the 
spirits  at  the  first  glance.  Afterwards  they  fatigue  us  ;  we 
get  too  soon  behind  the  scenes,  and  find  the  base  and  troub- 
lous passions  which  move  the  puppets  and  conduct  the  drama. 

But  Gertrude,  in  whom  ill  health  had  not  destroyed  the  viv- 
idness of  impression  that  belongs  to  the  inexperienced,  was 


THE    PILGRIMS    OF    THE    RHINE.  55 

delighted  at  the  cheeriness  of  all  around  her.  As  she  leaned 
lightly  on  Trevylyan's  arm,  he  listened  with  a  forgetful  joy  to 
her  questions  and  exclamations  at  the  stir  and  liveliness  of  a 
city,  from  which  was  to  commence  their  pilgrimage  along  the 
Rhine.  And  indeed  the  scene  was  rife  with  the  spirit  of  that 
people  at  once  so  active  and  so  patient — so  daring  on  the  sea, 
so  cautious  on  the  land.  Industry  was  visible  everywhere  ; 
the  vessels  in  the  harbor,  the  crowded  boat  putting  off  to  land, 
the  throng  on  the  quay, — all  looked  bustling  and  spoke  of 
commerce.  The  city  itself,  on  which  the  skies  shone  fairly 
.through  light  and  fleecy  clouds,  wore  a  cheerful  aspect.  The 
church  of  St.  Lawrence  rising  above  the  clean,  neat  houses, 
and  on  one  side  trees  thickly  grouped,  gayly  contrasted  at 
once  the  waters  and  the  city. 

"  I  like  this  place,"  said  Gertrude's  father  quietly  ;  "  it  has 
an  air  of  comfort." 

•"  And  an  absence  of  grandeur/'  said  Trevylyan. 

"  A  commercial  people  are  one  great  middle  class  in  their 
habits  and  train  of  mind,"  replied  Vane  ;  "  and  grandeur  be- 
longs to  the  extremes — an  impoverished  population,  and  a 
wealthy  despot." 

They  went  to  see  the  statue  of  Erasmus,  and  the  house  in 
which  he  was  born.  Vane  had  a  certain  admiration  for  Eras- 
mus which  his  companions  did  not. share  ;  he  liked  the  quiet 
irony  of  the  sage,  and  his  knowledge  of  the  world  ;  and,  be- 
sides, Vane  was  of  that  time  of  life  when  philosophers  become 
objects  of  interest.  At  first  they  are  teachers  ;  secondly, 
friends  ;  and  it  is  only  a  few  who  arrive  at  the  third  stage,  and 
find  them  deceivers.  The  Dutch  are  a  singular  people.  Their 
literature  is  neglected,  but  it  has  some  of  the  German  vein  in 
its  strata — the  patience,  the  learning,  the  homely  delineation, 
and  even  some  traces  of  the  mixture  of  the  humorous  and  the 
terrible,  which  form  that  genius  for  the  grotesque  so  especially 
German  ;  you  find  this  in  their  legends  and  ghost  stories. 
But  in  Holland  activity  destroys,  in  Germany  indolence  nour- 
ishes, romance. 

They  stayed  a  day  or  two  at  Rotterdam,  and  then  proceeded 
up  the  Rhine  to  Gorcum.  The  banks  were  flat  and  tame,  and 
nothing  could  be  less  impressive  of  its  native  majesty  than  this 
part  of  the  course  of  the  great  river. 

"  I  never  felt  before,"  whispered  Gertrude  tenderly,  "  how 
much  there  was  of  consolation  in  your  presence  ;  for  here  I 
am  at  last  on  the  Rhine — the  blue  Rhine,  and  how  disap- 
pointed I  should  be  if  you  were  not  by  my  side  !  " 


56  THE    PILGRIMS   OF    THE    RHINE. 

"  But,  my  Gertrude,  you  must  wait  till  we  have  passed.  Co« 
logne,  before  the  glories  of  the  Rhine  burst  upon  you." 

"  It  reverses  life,  my  child,"  said  the  moralizing  Vane ; 
"and  the  stream  flows  through  dulness  at  first,  reserving  its 
poetry  for  our  perseverance." 

"  I  will  not  allow  your  doctrine,"  said  Trevylyan,  as  the  am- 
bitious ardor  of  his  native  disposition  stirred  within  him. 
"  Life  has  always  action  ;  it  is  our  own  fault  if  it  ever  be  dull: 
youth  has  its  enterprise,  manhood  its  schemes  ;  and  even  if 
infirmity  creep  upon  age,  the  mind, — the  mind  still  triumphs 
over  the  mortal  clay,  and  in  the  quiet  hermitage,  among  books, 
and  from  thoughts,  keeps  the  great  wheel  within  everlastingly 
in  motion.  No,  the  better  class  of  spirits  have  always  an  an- 
tidote to  the  insipidity  of  a  common  career,  they  have  ever 
energy  at  will — " 

"  And  never  happiness  !  "  answered  Vane,  after  a  pause,  as 
he  gazed  on  the  proud  countenance  of  Trevylyan,  with  that 
kind  of  calm,  half-pitying  interest  which  belonged  to  a  char- 
acter deeply  imbued  with  the  philosophy  of  a  sad  experience, 
acting  upon  an  unitnpassioned  heart.  "And  in  truth,  Trevy- 
lyan, it  would  please  me  if  I  could  but  teach  you  the  folly  of 
preferring  the  exercise  of  that  energy,  of  which  you  speak,  to 
the  golden  luxuries  of  REST.  What  ambition  can  ever  bring 
an  adequate  reward  ?  Not,  surely,  the  ambition  of  letters,  the 
desire  of  intellectual  renown  !  " 

"  True,"  said  Trevylyan  quietly  ;  "that  dream  I  have  long 
renounced ;  there  is  nothing  palpable  in  literary  fame :  it 
scarcely  perhaps  soothes  the  vain  ;  it  assuredly  chafes  the 
proud.  In  my  earlier  years  I  attempted  some  works,  which 
gained  what  the  world,  perhaps  rightly,  deemed  a  sufficient 
meed  of  reputation  ;  yet  it  was  not  sufficient  to  recompense 
myself  for  the  fresh  hours  I  had  consumed,  for  the  sacrifices 
of  pleasure  I  had  made.  The  subtle  aims  that  had  inspired 
me  were  not  perceived  ;  the  thoughts  that  had  seemed  new 
and  beautiful  to  me,  fell  flat  and  lustreless  on  the  soul  of 
others.  If  I  was  approved,  it  was  often  for  what  I  condemned 
myself  !  And  I  found  that  the  trite  commonplace  and  the 
false  wit  charmed,  while  the  truth  fatigued,  and  the  enthusiasm 
revolted.  For  men  of  that  genius  to  which  I  make  no  preten- 
sion, who  have  dwelt  apart  in  the  obscurity  of  their  own 
thoughts,  gazing  upon  stars  that  shine  not  for  the  dull  sleepers 
of  the  world,  it  must  be  a  keen  sting  to  find  the  product  of 
their  labor  confounded  with  a  class,  and  to  be  mingled  up  in 
men's  judgment  with  the  faults  or  merits  of  a  tribe, 


THE    PILGRIMS    OF    THE    RHINE.  §7 

great  genius  must  deem  himself  original  and  alone  in  ins  con- 
ceptions. It  is  not  enough  for  him  that  these  conceptions 
should  be  approved  as  good,  unless  they  are  admitted  as  in- 
ventive, if  they  mix  him  with  the  herd  he  has  shunned,  not 
separate  him  in  fame  as  he  has  been  separated  in  soul.  Some 
Frenchman,  the  oracle  of  his  circle,  said  of  the  poet  of  the 
Phedre  :  '  Racine  and  the  other  imitators  of  Corneille  ';  and 
Racine,  in  his  wrath,  nearly  forswore  tragedy  forever.  It  is 
in  vain  to  tell  the  author  that  the  public  is  the  judge  of  his 
works.  The  author  believes  himself  above  the  public,  or  he 
would  never  have  written,  and,"  continued  Trevylyan,  with 
enthusiasm,  "  he  is  above  them  ;  their  fiat  may  crush  his  glory, 
but  never  his  self-esteem.  He  stands  alone  and  haughty 
amidst  the  wrecks  of  the  temple  he  imagined  he  had  raised 
'  TO  THE  FUTURE,'  and  retaliates  neglect  with  scorn.  But  is 
this,  the  life  of  scorn,  a  pleasurable  state  of  existence  ?  Is  it  one 
to  be  cherished  ?  Does  even  the  moment  of  fame  counterbalance 
the  years  of  mortification  ?  And  what  is  there  in  literary  fame 
itself  present  and  palpable  to  its  heir  ?  His  work  is  a  pebble 
thrown  into  the  deep  ;  the  stir  lasts  for  a  moment,  and  the  wave 
closes  up,  to  be  susceptible  no  more  to  the  same  impression.  The 
circle  may  widen  to  other  lands  and  other  ages,  but  around  him 
it  is  weak  and  faint.  The  trifles  of  the  day,  the  low  politics,  the 
base  intrigues,  occupy  the  tongue,  and  fill  the  thought  of  his 
contemporaries  ;  he,  is  less  known  than  a  mountebank,  or  a 
new  dancer  ;  his  glory  comes  not  home  to  him  ;  it  brings  no 
present,  no  perpetual  reward,  like  the  applauses  that  wait  the 
actor,  or  the  actor-like  mummer  of  the  senate  ;  and  this  which 
vexes,  also  lowers  him  ;  his  noble  nature  begins  to  nourish  the 
base  vices  of  jealousy,  and  the  unwillingness  to  admire.  Gold- 
smith is  forgotten  in  the  presence  of  a  puppet  ;  he  feels  it, 
and  is  mean  ;  he  expresses  it,  and  is  ludicrous.  It  is  well  to 
say  that  great  minds  will  not  stoop  to  jealousy  ;  in  the  greatest 
minds,-  it  is  most  frequent.*  Few  authors  are  ever  so  aware 
of  the  admiration  they  excite,  as  to  afford  to  be  generous  ;  and 
this  melancholy  truth  revolts  us  with  our  own  ambition.  Shall 
we  be  demigods  in  our  closet,  at  the  price  of  sinking  below 
mortality  in  the  world  ?  No  !  it  was  from  this  deep  sentiment 
of  the  unreal  ness  of  literary  fame,  of  dissatisfaction  at  the 
fruits  it  produced,  of  fear  for  the  meanness  it  engendered, 
that  I  resigned  betimes  all  love  for  its  career  ;  and  if  by  the 

*  See  the  long  list  of  names  furnished  by  D' Israeli,  in  that  most  exquisite  work,  "  The 
Literary  Character,"  vol.  ii!  p.  75.  Plato,  Xenophon,  Chaucer,  Corneille,  Voltaire,  Dry- 
den,  the  Caracci,  Domenico  Venetiano,  murdered  by  his  envious  friend,  and  the  gentle 
Castillo  fainting  away  at  the  genius  of  Murillo. 


5&  THE    PILGRIMS    OF    THE    RHINE. 

restless  desire  that  haunts  men  who  think  much,  to  write  ever, 
1  should  be  urged  hereafter  to  literature,  I  will  sternly  teach 
myself  to  persevere  in  the  indifference  to  its  fame." 

"  You  say  as  I  would  say,"  answered  Vane,  with  his  tranquil 
smile  ;  "  and  your  experience  corroborates  my  theory.  Am- 
bition, then,  is  not  the  root  of  happiness.  Why  more  in  action 
than  in  letters  ?  " 

"  Because,"  said  Trevylyan,  "  in  action  we  commonly  gain 
in  our  life  all  the  honor  we  deserve  ;  the  public  judge  of  men 
better  and  more  rapidly  than  of  books.  And  he  who  takes  to 
himself  in  action  a  high  and  pure  ambition,  associates  it  with 
so  many  objects,  that,  unlike  literature,  the  failure  of  one  is 
balanced  by  the  success  of  the  other.  He,  the  creator  of 
deeds,  not  resembling  the  creator  of  books,  stands  not  alone  ; 
he  is  eminently  social  ;  he  has  many  comrades,  and  without 
their  aid  he  could  not  accomplish  his  designs.  This  divides 
and  mitigates  the  impatient  jealousy  against  others.  He  works 
for  a  cause,  and  knows  early  that  he  cannot  monopolize  its 
whole  glory  ;  he  shares  what  he  is  aware  it  is  impossible  to 
engross.  Besides,  action  leaves  him  no  time  for  brooding  over 
disappointment.  The  author  has  consumed  his  youth  in  a 
work — it  fails  in  glory.  Can  he  write  another  work?  Bid  him 
call  back  another  youth  !  But  in  action,  the  labor  of  the  mind 
is  from  day  to  day.  A  week  replaces  what  a  week  has  lost, 
and  all  the  aspirant's  fame  is  of  the  present.  It  is  lipped  by 
the  Babel  of  the  living  world  ;  he  is  ever  on  the  stage,  and  the 
spectators  are  ever  ready  to  applaud.  Thus  perpetually  in 
the  service  of  others,  self  ceases  to  be  his  world  ;  he  has  no 
leisure  to  brood  over  real  or  imaginary  wrongs,  the  excitement 
whirls  on  the  machine  till  it  is  worn  out — " 

"And  kicked  aside,"  said  Vane,  "with  the  broken  lumber 
of  men's  other  tools,  in  the  chamber  of  their  sons'  forgetful- 
ness.  Your  man  of  action  lasts  but  for  an  hour  ;  the  man  of 
letters  lasts  for  ages." 

"  We  live  not  for  ages,"  answered  Trevylyan  ;  "  our  life  is 
on  earth,  and  not  in  the  grave." 

"  But  even  grant,"  continued  Vane,  "  and  I  for  one  will  con- 
cede the  point,  that  posthumous  fame  is  not  worth  the  living 
agonies  that  obtain  it,  how  are  you  better  off  in  your  poor  and 
vulgar  career  of  action  ?  Would  you  assist  the  rulers  ? — ser- 
vility !  The  people  ? — folly  !  If  you  take  the  great  philosoph- 
ical view  which  the  worshippers  of  the  past  rarely  take,  but 
which,  unknown  to  them,  is  their  sole  excuse,  viz.,  that  the 
changes  which  may  benefit  the  future  unsettle  the  present ;  and 


THE    PILGRIMS    OF    tHE    RklNE.  5<) 

that  it  is  not  the  wisdom  of  practical  legislation  to  risk  the 
peace  of  our  contemporaries  in  the  hope  of  obtaining  happiness 
for  their  posterity,  to  what  suspicions,  to  what  charges  are  you 
exposed  !  You  are  deemed  the  foe  of  all  liberal  opinion,  and 
you  read  your  curses  in  the  eyes  of  a  nation.  But  take  the 
side  of  the  people.  What  caprice  !  What  ingratitude  !  You 
have  professed  so  much  in  theory,  that  you  can  never  accom- 
plish sufficient  in  practice.  Moderation  becomes  a  crime  ;  to 
be  prudent  is  to  be  perfidious.  New  demagogues,  without 
temperance,  because  without  principle,  outstrip  you  in  th*». 
moment  of  your  greatest  services.  The  public  is  the  grave  01 
a  great  man's  deeds  ;  it  is  never  sated  ;  its  maw  is  eternally 
open  ;  it  perpetually  craves  for  more.  Where,  in  the  history 
of  the  world,  do  you  find  the  gratitude  of  a  people  ?  You  find 
fervor,  it  is  true,  but  not  gratitude  ;  the  fervor  that  exagger- 
ates a  benefit  at  one  moment,  but  not  the  gratitude  that  re- 
members it  the  next  year.  Once  disappoint  them,  and  all 
your  actions,  all  your  sacrifices,  are  swept  from  their  remem- 
brance forever  ;  they  break  the  windows  of  the  very  house 
they  .have  given  you,  and  melt  down  their  medals  into  bullets. 
Who  serves  man,  ruler  or  peasant,  serves  the  ungrateful  ;  and 
all  the  ambitious  are  but  types  of  a  Wolsey  or  a  De  Witt." 

"  And  what,"  said  Trevylyan,  "  consoles  a  man  in  the  ills 
that  flesh  is  heir  to,  in  that  state  of  obscure  repose,  that  serene 
inactivity  to  which  you  would  confine  him  ?  Is  it  not  his  con- 
science ?  Is  it  not  his  self-acquittal,  or  his  self-approval  ?  " 

"  Doubtless,"  replied  Vane. 

"  Be  it  so,"  answered  the  high-souled  Trevylyan  ;  "  the 
same  consolation  awaits  us  in  action  as  in  repose.  We  sedu- 
lously pursue  what  we  deem  to  be  true  glory.  We  are  ma- 
ligned^; but  our  soul  acquits  us.  Could  it  do  more  in  the  scan- 
dal and  the  prejudice  that  assail  us  in  private  life?  You  are 
silent  ;  but  note  how  much  deeper  should  be  the  comfort,  how 
much  loftier  the  self-esteem  ;  for  if  calumny  attack  us  in  a 
wilful  obscurity,  what  have  we  done  to  refute  the  calumny  ? 
How  have  we  served  our  species  ?  Have  we  'scorned  delight 
and  loved  laborious  days  '  ?  Have  we  made  the  utmost  of  the 
'  talent '  confided  to  our  care  ?  Have  we  done  those  good 
deeds  to  our  race  upon  which  we  can  retire — an  '  Estate  of 
Beneficence ' — from  the  malice  of  the  world,  and  feel  that  our 
deeds  are  our  defenders  ?  This  is  the  consolation  of  virtuous 
actions  ;  is  it  so  of — even  a  virtuous — indolence  ?  " 

"  You  speak  as  a  preacher,"  said  Vane  ;  "  I  merely  as  a  cal- 
culator. You  of  virtue  in  affliction,  I  of  a  life  in  ease." 


60  THE    PILGRIMS    OF    THE    RHINE. 

"Well,  then,  if  the  consciousness  of  perpetual  endeavor  td 
advance  our  race  be  not  alone  happier  than  the  life  of  ease, 
let  us  see  what  this  vaunted  ease  really  is.  Tell  me,  is  it  not 
another  name  for  ennui  ?  This  state  of  quiescence,  this  object- 
less, dreamless  torpor,  this  transition  du  lit  a  la  table,  de  la  table 
au  lit ;  what  more  dreary  and  monotonous  existence  can  you 
devise  ?  Is  it  pleasure  in  this  inglorious  existence  to  think 
that  you  are  serving  pleasure  ?  Is  it  freedom  to  be  the  slave 
to  self?  For  I  hold,"  continued  Trevylyan,  "  that  this  jargon 
of  '  consulting  happiness,'  this  cant  of  living  for  ourselves,  is 
'but  a  mean  as  well  as  a  false  philosophy.  Why  this  eternal 
reference  to  self  ?  Is  self  alone  to  be  consulted  ?  Is  even 
our  happiness,  did  it  truly  consist  in  repose,  really  the  great 
end  of  life  ?  I  doubt  if  we  cannot  ascend  higher.  I  doubt  if 
we  cannot  say  with  a  great  moralist,  '  If  virtue  be  not  estima- 
ble in  itself,  we  can  see  nothing  estimable  in  following  it  for 
the  sake  of  a  bargain."  But,  in  fact,  repose  is  the  poorest  of 
all  delusions  ;  the  very  act  of  recurring  to  self  brings  about 
us  all  those  ills  of  self  from  which,  in  the  turmoil  of  the  world, 
we  can  escape.  We  become  hypochondriacs.  Our  very  health 
grows  an  object  of  painful  possession.  We  are  so  desirous  to 
be  well  (for  what  is  retirement  without  health  !)  that  we  are 
ever  fancying  ourselves  ill  ;  and,  like  the  man  in  the  '  Specta- 
tor,' we  weigh  ourselves  daily,  and  live  but  by  grains  and 
scruples.  Retirement  is  happy  only  for  the  poet,  for  to  him  it 
is  not  retirement.  He  secedes  from  one  world  but  to  gain  an- 
other, and  he  finds  not  ennui  in  seclusion  :  why  ? — not  because 
seclusion  hath  repose,  but  because  it  hath  occupation.  In  one 
word,  then,  I  say  of  action  and  of  indolence,  grant  the  same 
ills  to  both,  and  to  action  there  is  the  readier  escape  or  the 
nobler  consolation." 

Vane  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "Ah,  my  dear  friend,'1  said 
he,  tapping  his  snuff-box  with  benevolent  superiority,  "  you 
are  much  younger  than  I  am  ! " 

But  these  conversations,  which  Trevylyan  and  Vane  often 
had  together,  dull  as  I  fear  this  specimen  must  seem  to  the 
reader,  had  an  inexpressible  charm  for  Gertrude.  She  loved 
the  lofty  and  generous  vein  of  philosophy  which  Trevylyan 
embraced,  and  which,  while  it  suited  his  ardent  nature,  con- 
trasted a  demeanor  commonly  hard  and  cold  to  all  but  her- 
self. And  young  and  tender  as  she  was,  his  ambition  infused 
its  spirit  into  her  fine  imagination,  and  that  passion  for  enter- 
prise which  belongs  inseparably  to  romance.  She  loved  to 
jnuse  over  his  future  lot,  and  in  fancy  to  share  its  toils  and  to 


iHE    PILGRIMS    OF    THE    RHINE.  6l 

exult  in  its  triumphs.  And  if  sometimes  she  asked  herself 
whether  a  career  of  action  might  not  estrange  him  from  her; 
she  had  but  to  turn  her  gaze  upon  his  watchful  eye — and  lo,  he 
was  by  her  side  or  at  her  feet ! 


CHAPTER  VI. 

GORCUM.  —  THE  TOUR  OF  THE  VIRTUES  :  A  PHILOSOPHER'S  TALE. 


IT  was  a  bright  and  cherry  morning  as  they  glided  by 
cum.  The  boats  pulling  to  the  shore  full  of  fishermen  and 
peasants  in  their  national  costume  ;  the  breeze,  freshly  rippling 
the  waters  ;  the  lightness  of  the  blue  sky  ;  the  loud  and  laugh- 
ing voices  from  the  boats  —  all  contributed  to  raise  the  spirit, 
and  fill  it  with  that  indescribable  gladness  which  is  the  physical 
sense  of  life. 

The  tower  of  the  church,  with  its  long  windows  and  its 
round  dial,  rose  against  the  clear  sky  ;  and  on  a  bench  under 
a  green  bush  facing  the  water  sat  a  jolly  Hollander,  refreshing 

the  breezes  with  the  fumes  of  his  national  weed. 

• 

"  How  little  it  requires  to  make  a  'journey  pleasant,  when 
the  companions  are  our  friends  !  "  said  Gertrude  as  they  sailed 
along.  "Nothing  can  be  duller  than  these  banks;  nothing 
more  delightful  than  this  voyage." 

"  Yet  what  tries  the  affections  of  people  for  each  other  so 
severely  as  a  journey  together  ?"  said  Vane.  "  That  perpetual 
companionship  from  which  there  is  no  escaping;  that  confine- 
ment, in  all  our  moments  of  ill-humor  and  listlessness,  with 
persons  who  want  us  to  look  amused  —  ah,  it  is  a  severe  ordeal 
for  friendship  to  pass  through  !  A  post-chaise  must  have 
jolted  many  an  intimacy  to  death." 

"  You  speak  feelingly,  dear  father,"  said  Gertrude,  laugh- 
ing ;  "and,  I  suspect,  with  a  slight  desire  to  be  sarcastic  upon 
us.  Yet,  seriously,  I  should  think  that  travel  must  be  like 
life,  and  trial  good  persons  must  be  always  agreeable  com- 
panions to  each  other." 

"  Good  persons,  my  Gertrude  !  "  answered  Vane  with  a 
smile.  Alas  !  I  fear  the  good  weary  each  other  quite  as  much 
as  the  bad.  What  say  you,  Trevylyan,  would  Virtue  be  a 
pleasant  companion  from  Paris  to  Petersburg  ?  Ah,  I  see  you 
intend  to  be  on  Gertrude's  side  of  the  question.  Well  now 
if  I  tell  you  a  story,  since  stories  are  so  much  the  fashion  with 
you,  in  which  you  shall  find  that  the  Virtues  themselves  actu- 


62  Tiifc  PILGRIMS  or  THE 

ally  made  the  experiment  of  a  tour,  will  you  promise  to  attend 
to  the  moral  ? " 

"  Oh,  dear  father,  anything  for  a  story,"  cried  Gertrude ; 
"  especially  from  you  who  have  not  told  us  one  all  the  way. 
Come,  listen,  Albert ;  nay,  listen  to  your  new  rival." 

And,  pleased  to  see  the  vivacity  of  the  invalid,  Vane  began 
as  follows  :  f 

THE    TOUR    OF    THE    VIRTUES. 
A  PHILOSOPHER'S  TALE. 

Once  upon  a  time,  several  of  the  Virtues,  weary  of  living 
forever  with  the  Bishop  of  Norwich,  resolved  to  make  a 
little  excursion  ;  accordingly,  though  they  knew  everything 
on  earth  was  very  ill  prepared  to  receive  them,  they  thought 
they  might  safely  venture  on  a  tour  from  Westminster  Bridge 
to  Richmond  :  the  day  was  fine,  the  wind  in  their  favor, 
and  as  to  entertainment — why  there  seemed,  according  to 
Gertrude,  to  be  no  possibility  of  airy  disagreement  among  the 
Virtues. 

They  took  a  boat  at  Westminster  Stairs,  and  just  as  they 
were  about  to  push  off,  a  poor  woman,  all  in  rags,  with  a  child 
in  her  arms,  implored  their  compassion.  Charity  put  her  hand 
into  her  reticule,  and  took  out  a  shilling.  Justice,  turning 
round  to  look  after  the  luggage,  saw  the  folly  which  Charity 
was  about  to  commit.  "  Heavens !  "  cried  Justice,  seizing 
poor  Charity  by  the  arm,  "  what  are  you  doing  ?  Have  you 
never  read  Political  Economy  ?  Don't  you  know  that  indis- 
criminate almsgiving  is  only  the  encouragement  to  Idleness, 
the  mother  of  Vice  ?  You  a  Virtue,  indeed  !  I'm  ashamed  of 
you.  Get  along  with  you,  good  woman — yet  stay,  there  is  a 
ticket  for  soup  at  the  Mendicity  Society  :  they'll  see  if  you're 
a  proper  object  of  compassion."  But  Charity  is  quicker  than 
Justice,  and  slipping  her  hand  behind  her,  the  poor  woman 
got  the  shilling  and  the  ticket  for  soup  too.  Economy  and 
Generosity  saw  the  double  gift.  "  What  waste  !  "  cried  Econ- 
omy, frowning  ;  "  what,  a  ticket  and  a  shilling  !  Either  would 
have  sufficed." 

"  Either  !"  said  Generosity,"  fie  !  Charity  should  have  given 
the  poor  creature  half-a-crown,  and  Justice  a  dozen  tickets  !" 
So  the  next  ten  minutes  were  consumed  in  a  quarrel  between 
the  four  Virtues,  which  would  have  lasted  all  the  way  to  Rich- 
mond, if  Courage  had  not  advised  them  to  get  on  shore  and 
fight  it  out.  Upon  this,  the  Virtues  suddenly  perceived  they 
had  a  little  forgotten  themselves,  and  Generosity  offering  the 


THE  PILGRIMS  OF  THE  RHINE.  63 

first  apology,  they  made  it  up,  and  went  on  very  agreeably  for 
the  next  mile  or  two. 

The  day  now  grew  a  little  overcast,  and  a  shower  seemed  at 
hand.  Prudence,  who  had  on  a  new  bonnet,  suggested  the 
propriety  of  putting  to  shore  for  half  an  hour  ;  Courage  was 
for  braving  the  rain  ;  but  as  most  of  the  Virtues  are  ladies, 
Prudence  carried  it.  Just  as  they  were  about  to  land,  another 
boat  cut  in  before  them  very  uncivilly,  and  gave  theirs  such  a 
shake,  that  Charity  was  all  but  overboard.  The  company  on 
board  the  uncivil  boat,  who  evidently  though  the  Virtues  ex- 
tremely low  persons,  for  they  had  nothing  very  fashionable 
about  their  exterior,  burst  out  laughing  at  Charity's  discom- 
posure, especially  as  a  large  basket  full  of  buns,  which  Charity 
carried  with  her  for  any  hungry-looking  children  she  might 
encounter  at  Richmond,  fell  pounce  into  the  water.  Courage 
was  all  on  fire  ;  he  twisted  his  mustache,  and  would  have  made 
an  onset  on  the  enemy,  if,  to  his  great  indignation,  Meekness 
had  not  forestalled  him,  by  stepping  mildly  into  the  hostile  boat 
and  offering  both  cheeks  to  the  foe.  This  was  too  much  even 
for  the  incivility  of  the  boatmen  ;  they  made  their  excuses  to 
the  Virtues,  and  Courage,  who  is  no  bully,  thought  himself 
bound  discontentedly  to  accept  them.  But  oh  !  if  you  had  seen 
how  Courage  used  Meekness  afterwards,  you  could  not  have 
believed  it  possible  that  one  Virtue  could  be  so  enraged  with 
another  !  This  quarrel  between  the  two  threw  a  damp  on  the 
party  ;  and  they  proceeded  on  their  voyage,  when  the  shower 
was  over,  with  anything  but  cordiality.  1  spare  you  the  little 
squabbles  that  took  place  in  the  general  conversation — how 
Economy  found  fault  with  all  the  villas  by  the  way  ;  and  Tem- 
perance expressed  becoming  indignation  at  the  luxuries  of  the 
City  barge.  They  arrived  at  Richmond,  and  Temperance  was 
appointed  to  order  the  dinner  ;  meanwhile  Hospitality,  walking 
in  the  garden,  fell  in  with  a  large  party  of  Irishmen,  and  asked 
them  to  join  the  repast. 

Imagine  the  long  faces  of  Economy  and  Prudence,  when 
they  saw  the  addition  to  the  company.  Hospitality  was  all 
spirits  ;  he  rubbed  his  hands  and  called  for  champagne  with 
the  tone  of  a  younger  brother.  Temperance  soon  grew  scan- 
dalized, and  Modesty  herself  colored  at  some  of  the  jokes  ; 
but  Hospitality,  who  was  now  half  seas  over,  called  the  one  a 
milksop,  and  swore  at  the  other  as  a- prude.  Away  went  the 
hours  ;  it  was  time  to  return,  and  they  made  down  to  the  water- 
side thoroughly  out  of  temper  with  one  another,  Economy 
and  Generosity  quarrelling  all  the  way  about  the  bill  and  the 


64  *rtE    PILGRIMS   OF    f  FtE    RHINE. 

waiters;  To  make  up  the  sum  of  their  mortification, 
passed  a  boat  where  all  the  company  were  in  the  best  possible 
spirits,  laughing  and  whooping  like  mad  ;  and  discovered  these 
jolly  companions  to  be  two  or  three  agreeable  Vices,  who  had 
put  themselves  under  the  management  of  Good  Temper.  So 
you  see,  Gertrude  that  even  the  Virtues  may  fall  at  logger- 
heads with  each  other,  and  pass  a  very  sad  time  of  it,  if  they 
happen  to  be  of  opposite  dispositions,  and  have  forgotten  to 
take  Good  Temper  along  with  them. 

"  Ah  !  "  said  Gertrude,  <l  but  you  have  overloaded  your  boat ; 
too  many  Virtues  might  contradict  one  another,  but  not  a  few  " 

"  Voila  ce  que  je  veux  dire"  said  Vane.  "  But  listen  to  the 
sequel  of  my  tale,  which  now  takes  a  new  moral." 

At  the  end  of  the  voyage,  and  after  a  long,  sulky  silence, 
Prudence  said,  with  a  thoughtful  air  :  "  My  dear  friends,  I 
have  been  thinking  that  as  long  as  we  keep  so  entirely  together, 
never  mixing  with  the  rest  of  the  world,  we  shall  waste  our  lives 
in  quarrelling  amongst  ourselves,  and  run  the  risk  of  being 
still  less  liked  and  sought  after  than  we  already  are.  You 
know  that  we  are  none  of  us  popular  ;  every  one  is  quite  con- 
tented to  see  us  represented  in  a  vaudeville,  or  described  in 
an  essay.  Charity,  indeed,  has  her  name  often  taken  in  vain 
at  a  bazaar,  or  a  subscription  ;  and  the  miser  as  often  talks  of 
the  duty  he  owes  to  me,  when  he  sends  the  stranger  from  his 
door,  or  his  grandson  to  gaol  :  but  still  we  only  resemble  so 
many  wild  beasts,  whom  everybody  likes  to  see,  but  nobody 
cares  to  possess.  Now,  I  propose,  that  we  should  all  separate 
and  take  up  our  abode  with  some  mortal  or  other  for  a  year, 
with  the  power  of  changing  at  the  end  of  that  time  should  we 
not  feel  ourselves  comfortable  ;  that  is,  should  we  not  find  that 
we  do  all  the  good  we  intend  :  let  us  try  the  experiment,  and 
on  this  day  twelvemonths  let  us  all  meet,  under  the  largest  oak 
in  Windsor  Forest,  and  recount  what  has  befallen  us."  Pru- 
dence ceased,  as  she  always  does  when  she  has  said  enough, 
and,  delighted  at  the  project,  the  Virtues  agreed  to  adopt  it  on 
the  spot.  They  were  enchanted  at  the  idea  of  setting  up  for 
themselves,  and  each  not  doubting  his  or  her  success  :  for 
Economy  in  her  heart  thought  Generosity  no  Virtue  at  all, 
and  Meekness  looked  on  Courage  as  little  better  than  a 
heathen. 

Generosity,  being  the  most  eager  and  active  of  all  the  Vir- 
tues, set  off  first  on  his  journey.  Justice  followed,  and  kept  up 
with  him,  though  at  a  more  even  pace.  Charity  never  heard 
a  sigh,  or  saw  a  squalid  face,  but  she  stayed  to  cheer  and  con- 


THE    PILGRIMS   OF    THE    RHINE.  65 

sole  the  sufferer — a  kindness  which  somewhat  retarded  her 
progress. 

Courage  espied  a  travelling  carriage,  with  a  man  and  his 
wife  in  it  quarrelling  most  conjugally,  and  he  civilly  begged  he 
might  be  permitted  to  occupy  the  vacant  seat  opposite  the 
lady.  Economy  still  lingered,  inquiring  for  the  cheapest 
inns.  Poor  Modesty  looked  round  and  sighed,  on  finding  her- 
self so  near  to  London,  where  she  was  almost  wholly  unknown  ; 
but  resolved  to  bend  her  course  thither,  for  two  reasons  :  first, 
for  the  novelty  of  the  thing  ;  and,  secondly,  not  liking  to  ex- 
pose herself  to  any  risks  by  a  journey  on  the  Continent.  Pru- 
dence, though  the  first  to  project,  was  the  last  to  execute  ;  and 
therefore  resolved  to  remain  where  she  was  for  that  night,  and 
take  daylight  for  her  travels. 

The  year  rolled  on,  and  the  Virtues,  punctual  to  the  appoint- 
ment, met  under  the  oak-tree  ;  they  all  came  nearly  at  the 
same  time,  excepting  Economy,  who  had  got  into  a  return 
post-chaise,  the  horses  to  which,  having  been  forty  miles  in 
the  course  of  the  morning,  had  foundered  by  the  way,  and  re- 
tarded her  journey  till  night  set  in.  The  Virtues  looked  sad 
and  sorrowful,  as  people  are  wont  to  do  after  a  long  and  fruit- 
less journey  ;  and,  somehow  or  other,  such  was  the  wearing 
effect  of  their  intercourse  with  the  world,  that  they  appeared 
wonderfully  diminished  in  size. 

"  Ah,  my  dear  Generosity,"  said  Prudence,  with  a  sigh,  "  as 
you  were  the  first  to  set  out  on  your  travels,  pray  let  us  hear 
your  adventures  first." 

"  You  must  know,  my  dear  sisters,"  said  Generosity,  "  that  I 
had  not  gone  many  miles  from  you  before  I  came  to  a  small 
country  town,  in  which  a  marching  regiment  was  quartered, 
and  at  an  open  window  I  beheld,  leaning  over  a  gentleman's 
chair,  the  most  beautiful  creature  imagination  ever  pictured  ; 
her  eyes  shone  out  like  two  suns  of  perfect  happiness,  and  she 
was  almost  cheerful  enough  to  have  passed  for  Good  Temper 
herself.  The  gentleman,  over  whose  chair  she  leaned,  was  her 
husband  ;  they  had  been  married  six  weeks  ;  he  was  a  lieuten- 
ant with  a  hundred  pounds  a  year  besides  his  pay.  Greatly 
affected  by  their  poverty,  I  instantly  determined,  without  a 
second  thought,  to  ensconce  myself  in  the  heart  of  this  charm- 
ing girl.  During  the  first  hour  in  my  new  residence  I  made 
many  wise  reflections,  such  as — that  Love  never  was  so  per- 
fect as  when  accompanied  by  Poverty  ;  what  a  vulgar  error  it 
was  to  call  the  unmarried  state  'Single  Blessedness';  how 
wrong  it  was  of  u§  Virtues  never  to  have  triexj  the  marriage 


66  THE    PILGRIMS    OF    THE    RHINE. 

bond  ;  and  what  a  falsehood  it  was  to  say  that  husbands  neg- 
lected their  wives,  for  never  was  there  anything  in  nature  so 
devoted  as  the  love  of  a  husband — six  weeks  married  ! 

"  The  next  morning,  before  breakfast,  as  the  charming 
Fanny  was  waiting  for  her  husband,  who  had  not  yet  finished 
his  toilet,  a  poor,  wretched-looking  object  appeared  at  the 
window,  tearing  her  hair  and  wringing  her.  hands  ;  her  hus- 
band had  that  morning  been  dragged  to  prison,  and  her  seven 
children  had  fought  for  the  last  mouldy  crust.  Prompted  by 
me,  Fanny,  without  inquiring  further  into  the  matter,  drew 
from  her  sUken  purse  a  five-pound  note,  and  gave  it  to  the 
beggar,  who  departed  more  amazed  than  grateful.  Soon  after 
the  lieutenant  appeared — '  What  the  d — 1,  another  bill  ! ' 
muttered  he,  as  he  tore  the  yellow  wafer  from  a  large,  square, 
folded,  bluish  piece  of  paper.  '  Oh,  ah  !  confoun'd  the  fellow, 
he  must  be  paid.  I  must  trouble  you,  Fanny,  for  fifteen 
pounds  to  pay  this  saddler's  bill.' 

"'  Fifteen  pounds,  love?'  stammered  Fanny,  blushing. 

" '  Yes,  dearest,  the  fifteen  pounds  I  gave  you  yester- 
day.' 

"  '  I  have  only  ten  pounds,'  said  Fanny  hesitatingly,  '  for 
such  a  poor,  wretched-looking  creature  was  here  just  now,  that 
I  was  obliged  to  give  her  five  pounds.' 

"'Five  pounds?  Good  Heavens  !"  exclaimed  the  aston- 
ished husband  ;  '  I  shall  have  no  more  money  this  three  weeks.' 
He  frowned,  he  bit  his  lips ;  nay,  he  even  wrung  his  hands, 
and  walked  up  and  down  the  room  ;  worse  still,  he  broke  forth_ 
with  :  '  Surely,  madam,  you  did  not  suppose,  when  you  mar- 
ried a  lieutenant  in  a  marching  regiment,  that  he  could  afford 
to  indulge  in  the  whim  of  giving  five  pounds  to  every  mendi- 
cant who  held  out  her  hand  to  you?  You  did  not,  I' say, 
madam,  imagine —  '  but  the  bridegroom  was  interrupted  by 
the  convulsive  sobs  of  his  wife  :  it  was  their  first  quarrel  ; 
they  were  but  six  weeks  married  ;  he  looked  at  her  for  one 
moment  sternly,  the  next  he  was  at  her  feet.  '  Forgive  me, 
dearest  Fanny — forgive  me,  for  I  cannot  forgive  myself.  I 
was  too  great  a  wretch  to  say  what  I  did  ;  and  do  believe,  my 
own  Fanny,  that  while  I  may  be  too  poor  to  indulge  you  in  it, 
I  do  from  my  heart  admire  so  noble,  so  disinterested,  a  gen- 
erosity.' Not  a  little  proud  did  I  feel  to  have  been  the  cause 
of  this  exemplary  husband's  admiration  for  his  amiable  wife, 
and  sincerely  did  I  rejoice  at  having  taken  up  my  abode  with 
these  poor  people.  But  not  to  tire  you,  my  dear  sisters,  with 
the  roinutife  of  detail,  I  shall  briefly  say  that  things  did  not 


THE    PILGRIMS    OF    THE    RHINE.  67 

long  remain  in  this  delightful  position-;  for,  before  many 
months  had  elapsed,  poor  Fanny  had  to  bear  with  her  hus- 
band's increased  and  more  frequent  storms  of  passion,  unfol- 
lowed  by  any  halcyon  and  honeymoon  suings  for  forgiveness  : 
for  at  my  instigation  every  shilling  went  ;  and  when  there  were 
no  more  to  go,  her  trinkets,  and  even  her  clothes  followed. 
The  lieutenant  became  a  complete  brute,  and  even  allowed  his 
unbridled  tongue  to  call  me — me,  sisters,  me! — 'heartless  Ex- 
travagance.' His  despicable  brother-officers,  and  their  gossip- 
ing wives,  were  no  better ;  for  they  did  nothing  but  animad- 
vert upon  my  Fanny's  ostentation  and  absurdity,  for  by  such 
names  had  they  the  impertinence  to  call  me.  Thus  grieved  to 
the  soul  to  find  myself  the  cause  of  all  poor  Fanny's  misfor- 
tunes, I  resolved  at  the  end  of  the  year  to  leave  her,  being 
thoroughly  convinced  that,  however  amiable  and  praiseworthy 
I  might  be  in  myself,  I  was  totally  unfit  to  be  bosom  friend 
and  adviser  to  the  wife  of  a  lieutenant  in  a  marching  regiment, 
with  only  a  hundred  pounds  a  year  besides  his  pay." 

The  Virtues  groaned  their  sympathy  with  the  unfortunate 
Fanny;  and  Prudence,  turning  to  Justice,  said  :  "  I  long  to 
hear  what  you  have  been  doing,  for  I  am  certain  you  cannot 
have  occasioned  harm  to  any  one." 

Justice  shook  her  head  and  said  :  "  Alas  !  I  find  that  there 
are  times  and  places  when  even  I  do  better  not  to  appear,  as 
a  short  account  of  my  adventures  will  prove  to  you.  No  sooner 
had  I  left  you  than  1  instantly  repaired  to  India,  and  took  up 
my  abode  with  a  Brahmin.  I  was  much  shocked  by  the  dread- 
ful inequalities  of  condition  that  reigned  in  the  several  castes, 
and  I  longed  to  relieve  the  poor  Pariah  from  his  ignominious 
destiny — accordingly  I  set  seriously  to  work  on  reform.  I  in- 
sisted upon  the  iniquity  of  abandoning  men  from  their  birth  to 
an  irremediable  state  of  contempt,  from  which  no  virtue  could 
exalt  them.  The  Brahmins  looked  upon  my  Brahmin  with  in- 
effable horror.  They  called  me  the  most  wicked  of  vices  ;  they 
.saw  no  distinction  between  Justice  and  Atheism.  I  uprooted 
their  society — that  was  sufficient  crime.  But  the  worst  was, 
that  the  Pariahs  themselves  regarded  me  with  suspicion  ;  they 
thought  it  unnatural  in  a  Brahmin  to  care  for  a  Pariah  !  And 
one  called  me  '  Madness/  another,  '  Ambition,'  and  a  third, 
'  The  Desire  to  innovate.'  My  poor  Brahmin  led  a  miserable 
life  of  it ;  when  one  day,  after  observing,  at  my  dictation,  that 
he  thought  a  Pariah's  life  as  much  entitled  to  respect  as  a  cow's, 
he  was  hurried  away  by  the  priests  and  secretly  broiled  on  the 
altar,  as  a  fitting  reward  for  his  sacrilege.  I  fled  hither  in 


68  THE    PILGRIMS    OF    THE    RHINE. 

great  tribulation,  persuaded  that  in  some  countries  even  Jus- 
tice may  do  harm." 

"As  for  me,"  said  Charity,  not  waiting  to  be  asked,"! 
grieve  to  say  that  I  was  silly  enough  to  take  up  my  abode  with 
an  old  lady  in  Dublin,  who  never  knew  what  discretion  was, 
and  always  acted  from  impulse  ;  my  instigation  was  irresisti- 
ble, and  the  money  she  gave  in  her  drives  through  the  suburbs 
of  Dublin  was  so  lavishly,  spent,  that  it  kept  all  the  rascals 
of  the  city  in  idleness  and  whisky.  I  found,  to  my  great  hor- 
ror, that  I  was  a  main  cause  of  a  terrible  epidemic,  and  that  to 
give  alms  without  discretion  was  to  spread  poverty  without 
help.  I  left  the  city  when  my  year  was  out,  and,  as  ill-luck 
would  have  it,  just  at  the  time  when  I  was  most  wanted." 

"And  oh,"  cried  Hospitality,  "  I  went  to  Ireland  also.  I 
fixed  my  abode  with  a  squireen  ;  I  ruined  him  in  a  year,  and 
only  left  him  because  he  had  no  longer  a  hovel  to  keep  me  in." 

"  As  for  myself,"  said  Temperance,  "  I  entered  the  breast  of 
an  English  legislator,  and  he  brought  in  a  bill  against  ale- 
houses;  the  consequence  was,  that  the  laborers  took  to  gin, 
and  I  have  been  forced  to  confess,  that  Temperance  may  be 
too  zealous  when  she  dictates  too  vehemently  to  others." 

"  Well,"  said  Courage,  keeping  more  in  the  background 
than  he  had  ever  done  before,  and  looking  rather  ashamed  of 
himself,  "that  travelling  carriage  I  got  into  belonged  to  a 
German  general  and  his  wife,  who  were  returning  to  their  own 
country.  Growing  very  cold  as  we  proceeded,  she  wrapped 
me  up  in  a  polonaise ;  but  the  cold  increasing,  I  inadvertently 
crept  into  her  bosom  ;  once  there  I  could  not  get  out,  and 
from  thenceforward  the  poor  general  had  considerably  the 
worst  of  it.  She  became  so  provoking,  that  I  wondered  how 
he  could  refrain  from  an  explosion.  To  do  him  justice,  he 
did  at  last  threaten  to  get  out  of  the  carriage  ;  upon  which, 
roused  by  me,  she  collared  him — and  conquered.  When  he 
got  to  his  own  district  things  grew  worse,  for  if  any  aide-de- 
camp offended  her  she  insisted  that  he  might  be  publicly  repri-- 
manded  ;  and  should  the  poor  general  refuse,  she  would  with 
her  own  hands  confer  a  caning  upon  the  delinquent.  The 
additional  force  she  had  gained  in  me  was  too  much  odds 
against  the  poor  general,  and  he  died  of  a  broken  heart,  six 
months  after  my  liaison  with  his  wife.  She  after  this  became 
so  dreaded  and  detested,  that  a  conspiracy  was  formed  to 
poison  her  ;  this  daunted  even  me,  so  I  left  her  without 
delay — et  me  void!" 

«'  Humph  ! "  said  Meekness,  with  an  air  of  triumph  ;  "  I.  at 


THE   PILGRIMS  OF   THE   RHINE.  69 

least,  have  been  more  successful  than  you.  On  seeing  much 
in  the  papers  of  the  cruelties  practised  by  the  Turks  on  the 
Greeks,  I  thought  my  presence  would  enable  the  poor  sufferers 
to  bear  their  misfortunes  calmly.  I  went  to  Greece,  then,  at 
a  moment,  when  a  well-planned  and  practicable  scheme  of 
emancipating  themselves  from  the  Turkish  yoke  was  arousing 
their  youth.  Without  confining  myself  to  one  individual,  I 
flitted  from  breast  to  beast ;  I  meekened  the  whole  nation  ; 
my  remonstrances  against  the  insurrection  succeeded,  and  I 
had  the  satisfaction  of  leaving  a  whole  people  ready  to  be 
killed,  or  strangled  with  the  most  Christian  resignation  in 
the  world." 

The  Virtues,  who  had  been  a  little  cheered  by  the  opening 
self-complacency  of  Meekness,  would  not,  to  her  great  astonish- 
ment, allow  that  she  had  succeeded  a  whit  more  happily  than 
her  sisters,  and  called  next  upon  Modesty  for  her  confession. 

"  You  know,"  said  that  amiable  young  lady,  "  that  I  went  to 
London  in  search  of  a  situation.  I  spent  three  months  of  the 
twelve  in  going  from  house  to  house,  but  I  could  not  get  a 
single  person  to  receive  me.  The  ladies  declared  they  never 
saw  so  old-fashioned  a  gawkey,  and  civilly  recommended  me 
to  their  abigails  ;  the  abigails  turned  me  round  with  a  stare, 
and  then  pushed  me  down  to  the  kitchen  and  the  fat  scullion- 
maids  ;  who  assured  me,  that  '  in  the  respectable  families  they 
had  the  honor  to  live  in,  they  had  never  even  heard  of  my 
name.'  One  young  housemaid,  just  from  the  country,  did 
indeed  receive  me  with  some  sort  of  civility ;  but  she  very 
soon  lost  me  in  the  servants'  hall.  I  now  took  refuge  with  the 
other  sex,  as  the  least  uncourteous.  I  was  fortunate  enough  to 
find  a  young  gentleman  of  remarkable  talents,  who  welcomed 
me  with  open  arms.  He  was  full  of  learning,  gentleness,  and 
honesty.  I  had  only  one  rival — Ambition.  We  both  con- 
tended for  an  absolute  empire  over  him.  Whatever  Ambition 
suggested,  I  damped.  Did  Ambition  urge  him  to  begin  a 
book,  I  persuaded  him  it  was  not  worth  publication.  Did  he 
get  up,  full  of  knowledge,  and  instigated  by  my  rival  to  make 
a  speech  (for  he  was  in  Parliament),  I  shocked  him  with  the 
sense  of  his  assurance  ;  I  made  his  voice  droop  and  his  accents 
falter.  At  last,  with  an  indignant  sigh,  my  rival  left  him  ;  he 
retired  into  the  country,  took  orders,  and  renounced  a  career 
he  had  fondly  hoped  would  be  serviceable  to  others  ;  but 
finding  I  did  not  suffice  for  his  happiness,  and  piqued  at  his 
melancholy,  I  left  him  before  the  end  of  the  year,  and  he  ha* 
since  taken  to  drinking  ! '' 


70  THE    PILGRIMS   OF    THE    RHINE. 

The  eyes  of  the  Virtues  were  all  turned  to  Prudence.  She 
was  their  last  hope  :  "  I  am  just  where  I  set  but,"  said  that 
discreet  Virtue  ;  "  I  have  done  neither  good  nor  harm.  To 
avoid  temptation,  I  went  and  lived  with  a  hermit,  to  whom  I 
soon  found  that  I  could  be  of  no  use  beyond  warning  him  not 
to  overboil  his  peas  and  lentils,  not  to  leave  his  door  open 
when  a  storm  threatened,  and  not  to  fill  his  pitcher  too  full  at 
the  neighboring  spring.  I  am  thus  the  only  one  of  you  that 
never  did  harm  ;  but  only  because  I  am  the  only  one  of  you 
that  never  had  an  opportunity  of  doing  it  !  In  a  word,"  con- 
tinued Prudence  thoughtfully — "in  a  word,  my  friends,  cir- 
cumstances are  necessary  to  the  Virtues  themselves.  Had,  for 
instance,  Economy  changed  with  Generosity,  and  gone  to  the 
poor  lieutenant's  wife,  and  had  I  lodged  with  the  Irish  squireen 
instead  of  Hospitality,  what  misfortunes  would  have  been 
saved  to  both  !  Alas  !  I  perceive  we  lose  all  our  efficacy  when 
we  are  misplaced  ;  and  then,  though  in  reality  Virtues,  we 
operate  as  Vices.  Circumstances  must  be  favorable  to  our 
exertions,  and  harmonious  with  our  nature;  and  we  lose  our 
very  divinity  unless  Wisdom  direct  our  footsteps  to  the  home 
we  should  inhabit,  and  the  dispositions  we  should  govern." 

The  story  was  ended,  and  the  travellers  began  to  dispute 
about  its  moral.  Here  let  us  leave  them. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

COLOGNE. — THE  TRACES  OF  THE  ROMAN  YOKE. — THE  CHURCH 
OF  ST.  MARIA. — TREVYLYAN's  REFLECTIONS  ON  THE  MON- 
ASTIC LIFE. — THE  TOMB  OF  THE  THREE  KINGS. — AN  EVEN- 
ING EXCURSION  ON  THE  RHINE. 

ROME — magnificent  Rome  !  wherever  the  pilgrim  wends, 
the  traces  of  thy  dominion  greet  his  eyes.  Still,  in  the  heart 
of  the  bold  German  race  is  graven  the  print  of  the  eagle's 
claws ;  and  amidst  the  haunted  regions  of  the  Rhine  we 
pause  to  wonder  at  the  great  monuments  of  the  Italian  yoke. 

At  Cologne  our  travellers  rested  for  some  days.  They  were 
in  the  city  to  which  the  camp  of  Marcus  Agrippa  had  given 
birth  :  that  spot  had  resounded  with  the  armed  tread  of  the 
legions  of  Trajan.  In  that  city,  Vitellius,  Sylvanus,  were  pro- 
claimed emperors.  By  that  church,  did  the  latter  receive  his 
death. 

As  they  passed   round  the  door,  they  saw  some  peasants 


THE   PILGRIMS   OF   THE   RHINE.  71 

loitering  on  the  sacred  ground  ;  and  when  they  noted  the  deli- 
cate cheek  of  Gertrude,  they  uttered  their  salutations  with 
more  than  common  respect.  Where  they  then  were,  the  build- 
ing swept  round  in  a  circular  form  ;  and  at  its  base  it  is  sup- 
posed, by  tradition,  to  retain  something  of  the  ancient  Roman 
masonry.  Just  before  them  rose  the  spire  of  a  plain  and 
unadorned  church,  singularly  contrasting  the  pomp  of  the  old, 
with  the  simplicity  of  the  innovating,  creed. 

The  Church  of  St.  Maria  occupies  the  site  of  the  Roman 
Capitol  ;  and  the  place  retains  the  Roman  name  ;  and  still 
something  in  the  aspect  of  the  people  betrays  the  hereditary 
blood. 

Gertrude,  whose  nature  was  strongly  impressed  with  the 
venerating  character^  was  fond  of  visiting  the  old  Gothic 
churches,  which,  with  so  eloquent  a  moral,  unite  the  living 
with  the  dead. 

"  Pause  for  a  moment,"  said  Trevylyan,  before  they  entered 
the  church  of  St.  Mary.  "  What  recollections  crowd  upon  us.! 
On  the  site  of  the  Roman  Capitol,  a  Christian  church  and  a 
convent  are  erected  !  By  whom  ?  The  mother  of  Charles 
Martel — the  Conquerer  of  the  Saracen — the  arch-hero  of 
Christendom  itself  !  And  to  these  scenes  and  calm  retreats, 
to  the  cloisters  of  the  convent  once  belonging  to  this  church, 
fled  the  bruised  spirit  of  a  royal  sufferer — the  victim  of  Riche- 
lieu, the  unfortunate  and  ambitious  Mary  de  Medicis.  Alas  ! 
the  cell  and  the  convent  are  but  a  vain  emblem  of  that  desire 
to  fly  to  God  which  belongs  to  Distress  ;  the  solitude  soothes, 
but  the  monotony  recalls,  regret.  And  for  my  own  part,  in 
my  frequent  tours  through  Catholic  countries,  I  never  saw  the 
still  walls  in  which  monastic  vanity  hoped  to  shut  out  the 
world,  but  a  melancholy  came  over  me  !  What  hearts  at  war 
with  themselves  !  What  unceasing  regrets !  What  pinings 
after  the  past  !  What  long  and  beautiful  years  devoted  to  a 
moral  grave,  by  a  momentary  rashness — an  impulse — a  disap- 
pointment !  But  in  these  churches  the  lesson  is  more  impres- 
sive and  less  sad.  The  weary  heart  has  ceased  to  ache,  the 
burning  pulses  are  still ;  the  troubled  spirit  has  flown  to  the 
•only  rest  which  is  not  a  deceit.  Power  and  love,  hope  and 
fear,  avarice,  ambition,  they  are  quenched  at  last !  Death  is- 
the  only  monastery,  the  tomb  is  the  only  cell." 

"  Your  passion  is  ever  for  active  life,"  said  Gertrude.  "  You 
allow  no  charm -to  solitude,  and  contemplation  to  you  seems 
torture.  If  any  great  sorrow  ever  come  upon  you,  you  will 
never  retire  to  seclusion  as  its  balm.  You  will  plunge  into 


7*  THE    PILGRIMS   OF    THE    RHINE. 

the  world,  and  lose  your  individual  existence  in  the  universal 
rush  of  life." 

"  Ah,  talk  not  of  sorrow  !  "  said  Trevylyan  wildly.  "  Let  us 
enter  the  church." 

They  went  afterwards  to  the  celebrated  cathedral,  which  is 
considered  one  of  the  noblest  of  the  architectural  triumphs  of 
Germany ;  but  it  is  yet  more  worthy  of  notice  from  the  Pilgrim 
of  Romance  than  the  searcher  after  antiquity,  for  here,  behind 
the  grand  altar,  is  the  Tomb  of  the  Three  Kings  of  Cologne — 
the  three  worshippers,  whom  tradition  humbled  to  our  Saviour. 
Legend  is  rife  with  a  thousand  tales  of  t!he  relics  of  this  tomb. 
The  Three  Kings  of  Cologne  are  the  tutelary  names  of  that 
golden  superstition,  which  has  often  more  votaries  than  the 
religion  itself  from  which  it  springs  :  and  to  Gertrude  the  sim- 
ple story  of  Lucille  sufficed  to  make  her  for  the  moment  credu- 
lous of  the  sanctity  of  the  spot.  Behind  the  tomb  three  Gothic 
windows  cast  their  "  dim,  religious  light"  over  the  tesselated 
pavement  and  along  the  Ionic  pillars.  They  found  some  of 
the  more  credulous  believers  in  the  authenticity  of  the  relics 
kneeling  before  the  tomb,  and  they  arrested  their  steps,  fearful 
to  disturb  the  superstition  which  is  never  without  something  of 
sanctity  when  contented  with  prayer,  and  forgetful  of  perse- 
cution. The  bones  of  the  Magi  are  still  supposed  to  conse- 
crate the  tomb,  and  on  the  higher  part  of  the  monument  the 
artist  has  delineated  their  adoration  to  the  infant  Savioujr. 

That  evening  came  on  with  a  still  and  tranquil  beauty,  and 
as  the  sun  hastened  to  its  close  they  launched  their  boat  for 
an  hour  or  two's  excursion  upon  the  Rhine.  Gertrude  was  in 
that  happy  mood  when  the  quiet  of  nature  is  enjoyed  like  a 
bath  for  the  soul,  and  the  presence  of  him  she  so  idolized 
deepened  that  stillness  into  a  more  delicious  and  subduing 
calm.  Little  did  she  dream  as  the  boat  glided  over  the  water, 
and  the  towers  of  Cologne  rose  in  the  blue  air  of  evening,  how 
few  were  those  hours  that  divided  her  from  the  tomb  !  But, 
in  looking  back  to  the  life  of  one  we  have  loved,  how  dear  is 
the  thought  that  the  latter  days  were  the  days  of  light,  that  the 
cloud  never  chilled  the  beauty  of  the  setting  sun,  and  that  if 
the  years  of  existence  were  brief,  all  that  existence  has  most 
tender,  most  sacreds  was  crowded  into  that  space  !  Nothing 
dark,  then,  or  bitter,  rests  with  our  remembrance  of  the  lost ; 
ive  are  the  mourners,  but  pity  is  not  for  the  mourned — our 
grief  is  purely  selfish  ;  when  we  turn  to  its  object,  the  hues  of 
happiness  are  round  it,  and  that  very  love  which  is  the  paren* 
of  our  woe  was  the  consolation — the  triumph — of  the  departed ' 


THE    PILGRIMS    OF    THE    RHINE.  73 

The  majestic  Rhine  was  calm  as  a  lake ;  the  splashing  of 
the  oar  only  broke  the  stillness,  and,  after  a  long  pause  in 
their  conversation,  Gertrude,  putting  her  hand  on  Trevylyan's 
arm,  reminded  him  of  a  promised  story  :  for  he,  too,  had 
moods  of  abstraction,  from  which,  in  her  turn,  she  loved  to  lure 
him ;  and  his  voice  to  her  had  become  a  sort  of  want. 

"Let  it  be,"  said  she,  "a  tale  suited  to  the  hour  ;  no  fierce 
tradition — nay,  no  grotesque  fable,  but  of  the  tenderer  dye  of 
superstition.  Let  it  be  of  love,  of  woman's  love — of  the  love 
that  defies  the  grave  :  for  surely  even  after  death  it  lives  ;  and 
Heaven  would  scarcely  be  Heaven  if  memory  were  banished 
from  its  blessings." 

"  I  recollect,"  said  Trevylyan,  after  a  slight  pause,  "  a  short 
German  legend,  the  simplicity  of  which  touched  me  much  when 
1  heard  it ;  but,"  added  he  with  a  slight  smile,  "  so  much  more 
faithful  appears  in  the  legend  the  love  of  the  woman  than  that 
of  the  man,  that  /  at  least  ought  scarcely  to  recite  it." 

"  Nay,"  said  Gertrude  tenderly,  "  the  fault  of  the  incon- 
stant only  heightens  our  gratitude  to  the  faithful." 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

THE  SOUL  IN  PURGATORY  ;    OR,  LOVE  STRONGER  THAN  DEATH. 

THE  angels  strung  their  harps  in  Heaven,  and  their  music 
went  up  like  a  stream  of  odors  to  the  pavilions  of  the  Most 
High.  But  the  harp  of  Seralim  was  sweeter  than  that  of  his 
fellows,  and  the  Voice  of  the  Invisible  One  (for  the  angels  them- 
selves know  not  the  glories  of  Jehovah — only  far  in  the  depths 
of  Heaven  they  see  one  Unsleeping  Eye  watching  forever  over 
Creation)  was  heard  saying  : 

"  Ask  a  gift  for  the  love  that  burns  in  thy  song,  and  it  shall 
be  given  thee." 

And  Seralim  answered  : 

"  There  are  in  that  place  which  men  call  Purgatory,  and 
which  is  the  escape  from  Hell,  but  the  painful  porch  of  Heaven, 
many  souls  that  adore  Thee,  and  yet  are  punished  justly  for 
their  sins  ;  grant  me  the  boon  to  visit  them-at  times,  and  so- 
lace their  suffering  by  the  hymns  of  the  harp  that  is  consecrated 
to  Thee  ! " 

And  the  Voice  answered  :    • 

"  Thy  prayer  is  heard,  O  gentlest  of  the  angels  !  and  it 
seems  good  to  Him  who  chastises  but  from  love.  Go  !  Thou 
hast  thy  will." 


«f4  THE    PILGRIMS   OF    THE    RHINE. 

Then  the  angel  sang  the  praises  of  God  ;  and  when  the  song 
was  done  he  rose  from  his  azure  throne  at  the  right  hand  of 
Gabriel,  and  spreading  his  rainbow  wings,  he  flew  to  that  mel- 
ancholy orb  which,  nearest  to  earth,  echoes  with  the  shrieks  of 
souls  that  by  torture  become  pure.  There  the  unhappy  ones 
see  from  afar  the  bright  courts  they  are  hereafter  to  obtain,  and 
the  shapes  of  glorious  beings,  who,  fresh  from  the  Fountains  of 
Immortality,  walk  amidst  the  gardens  of  Paradise,  and  feel  that 
their  happiness  hath  no  morrow  ;  and  this  thought  consoles 
amidst  their  torments,  and  makes  the  true  difference  between 
Purgatory  and  Hell. 

Then  the  angel  folded  his  wings,  and,  entering  the  crystal 
gates,  sat  down  upon  a  blasted  rock  and  struck  his  divine  lyre, 
and  a  peace  fell  over  the  wretched  ;  the  demon  ceased  to  tor- 
ture, and  the  victim  to  wail.  As  sleep  to  the  mourners  of  earth 
was  the  song  of  the  angel  to  the  souls  of  the  purifying  star  : 
one  only  voice  amidst  the  general  stillness  seemed  not  lulled 
by  the  angel  ;  it  was  the  voice  of  a  woman,  and  it  continued 
to  cry  out  with  a  sharp  cry  : 

"t)h,  Adenheim,  Adenheim  !  mourn  not  for  the  lost !  " 

The  angel  struck  chord  after  chord,  till  his  most  skilful 
melodies  were  exhausted  ;  but  still  the  solitary  voice,  unheed- 
ing— unconscious  of — the  sweetest  harp  of  the  angel  choir, 
cried  out  : 

"  Oh,  Adenheim,  Adenheim  !  mourn  not  for  the  lost !  " 

Then  Seralim's  interest  was  aroused,  and  approaching  the 
spot  whence  the  voice  came,  he  saw  the  spirit  of  a  young  and 
beautiful  girl  chained  to  a  rock,  and  the  demons  lying  idly  by. 
And  Seralim  said  to  the  demons  :  "  Doth  the  song  lull  ye  thus 
to  rest  ? " 

And  they  ansVered  :  "  Her  care  for  another  is  bitterer  than 
all  our  torments  ;  therefore  are  we  idle." 

Then  the  angel  approached  the  spirit,  and  said  in  a  voice 
which  stilled  her  cry — for  in  what  state  do  we  outlive  sympathy  ? 
"  Wherefore,  O  daughter  of  earth,  wherefore  wa41est  thou  with 
the  same  plaintive  wail  ?  And  why  doth  the  harp  that  soothes 
the  most  guilty  of  thy  companions,  fail  in  its  melody  with 
thee  ?  " 

"  O  radiant  stranger,"  answered  the  poor  spirit,  "thou 
speakest  to  one  who  on  earth  loved  God's  creature  more  than 
God  ;  therefore  is  she  thus  justly  sentenced.  But  I  know  that 
my  poor  Adenheim  mourns  ceaselessly  for  me,  and  the  thought 
of  his  sorrow  is  more  intolerable  to  me  than  all  that  the  demons 
can  inflict." 


THE    PILGRIMS    OF    THE    RHINE.  75 

"  And  how  knowest  thou  that  he  laments  thee  ?"  asked  the 
angel. 

"  Because  I  know  with  what  agony  I  should  have  mourned 
for  him"  replied  the  spirit  simply. 

The  divine  nature  of  the  angel  was  touched  ;  for  love  is  the 
nature  of  the  sons  of  Heaven.  "  And  how,"  said  he,  "  can  I 
minister  to  thy  sorrow  ?  " 

A  transport  seemed  to  agitate  the  spirit,  and  she  lifted  up 
her  mistlike  and  impalpable  arms,  and  cried  : 

"  Give  me — oh,  give  me  to  return  to  earth,  but  for  one  little 
hour,  that  I  may  visit  my  Adenheim  ;  and  that,  concealing 
from  him  my  present  sufferings,  I  may  comfort  him  in  his  own." 

"  Alas  !  "  said  the  angel,  turning  away  his  eyes — for  angels 
may  not  weep  in  the  sight  of  others — "  I  could,  indeed,  grant 
thee  this  boon,  but  thou  knowest  not  the  penalty.  For  the 
souls  in  Purgatory  may  return  to  Earth,  but  heavy  is  the  sen- 
tence that  awaits  their  return.  In  a  word,  for  one  hour  on 
earth  thou  must  add  a  thousand  years  to  the  tortures  of  thy 
confinement  here  !  " 

"Is  that  all?"  cried  the  spirit;  "willingly,  then,  will  I 
brave  the  doom.  Ah,  surely  they  love  not  in  Heaven,  or  thou 
wouldst  know,  O  Celestial  Visitant,  that  one  hour  of  consola- 
tion to  the  one  we  love  is  worth  a  thousand  ages  of  torture  to 
ourselves  !  Let  me  comfort  and  convince  my  Adenheim  ;  no 
matter  what  becomes  of  me." 

Then  the  angel  looked  on  high,  and  he  saw  in  far-distant 
regions,  which  in  that  orb  none  else  could  discern,  the  rays 
that  parted  from  the  all-guarding  Eye  ;  and  heard  the  VOICE 
of  the  Eternal  One  bidding  him  act  as  his  pity  whispered.  He 
looked  on  the  spirit,  and  her  shadowy  arms  stretched  plead- 
ingly towards  him  ;  he  uttered  the  word  that  loosens  the  bars  of 
the  gate  of  Purgatory  ;  and  lo,  the  spirit  had  re-entered  the 
human  world. 

It  was  night  in  the  halls  of  the  Lord  of  Adenheim,  and  he 
sat  at  the  head  of  his  glittering  board  ;  loud  and  long  was 
the  laugh,  and  merry  the  jest  that  echoed'  round  ;  and  the 
laugh  and  the  jest  of  the  Lord  of  Adenheim  were  louder  and 
merrier  than  all. 

And  by  his  right  side  sat  a  beautiful  lady  ;  and  ever  and 
anon  he  turned  from  others  to  whisper  soft  vows  in  her  ear. 

"  And  oh,"  said  the  bright  dame  of  Falkenberg,  "  thy  words 
what  ladye  can  believe  ?  Didst  thou  not  utter  the  same  oaths, 
and  promise  the  same  love,  to  Ida,  the  fair  daughter  of  Loden  ? 
And  now  but  three  little  months  have  closed  upon  her  grave  ?" 


76  THE    PILGRIMS   OF    THE    RHINE. 

"By  my  halidom,"  quoth  the  young  Lord  of  Adenheim, 
"  thou  dost  thy  beauty  marvellous  injustice.  Ida  !  Nay,  thou 
mockest  me  ;  /  love  the  daughter  of  Loden  !  Why,  how  then 
should  I  be  worthy  thee  ?  A  few  gay  words,  a  few  parsing 
smiles  —  behold  all  the  love  Adenheim  ever  bore  to  Ida.  Was 
it  my  fault  if  the  poor  fool  misconstrued  such  common  court- 
esy ?  Nay,  dearest  lady,  this  heart  is  virgin  to  thee." 

"  And  what  !  "  said  the  lady  of  Falkenberg,  as  she  suffered 
the  arm  of  Adenheim  to  encircle  her  slender  waist,  "  didst 
thou  not  grieve  for  her  loss  ?  " 

"Why,  verily,  yes,  for  the  first  week  ;  but  in  thy  bright  eyes 
I  found  ready  consolation." 

At  this  moment,  the  Lord  of  Adenheim  thought  he  heard  a 
deep  sigh  behind  him  ;  he  turned,  but  saw  nothing,  save  a 
slight  mist  that  gradually  faded  away,  and  vanished  in  the 
distance.  Where  was  the  necessity  for  Ida  to  reveal  herself? 


"And  thou  didst  not,  then,  do  thine  errand  to  thy  lover?" 
said  Seralim,  as  the  spirit  of  the  wronged  Ida  returned  to 
Purgatory. 

"Bid  the  demons  recommence  their  torture,"  was  poor  Ida's 
answer. 

"  And  was  it  for  this  that  thou  added  a  thousand  years  to 
thy  doom  ?  "  • 

"Alas  !"  answered  Ada,  "after  the  single  hour  I  have 
endured  on  Earth,  there  seems  to  be  but  little  terrible  in  a 
thousand  fresh  years  of  Purgatory  !  "  * 

"What  !  is  the  story  ended  ?"  asked  Gertrude. 

"Yes." 

"  Nay,  surely  the  thousand  years  were  not  added  to  poor 
Ida's  doom  ;  and  Seralim  bore  her  back  with  him  to  Heaven  ?  " 

"The  legend  saith  no  more.  The  writer  was  contented  to 
show  us  the  perpetuity  of  woman's  love  —  " 

"  And  its  reward,"  added  Vane. 

"  It  was  not  /  who  drew  that  last  conclusion,  Albert," 
whispered  Gertrude." 

*  This  story  is  principally  borrowed  from  a  foreign  soil.  It  seemed  to  the  author  worthy 
of  being  transferred  to  an  English  one,  although  h«  fears  that  much  of  its  singular  beauty 
in  the  original  has  been  lost  by  the  way, 


THE    PILGRIMS   OF    THE   RHINE.  77 


CHAPTER  IX. 

THE    SCENERY    OF    THE     RHINE     ANALOGOUS    TO    THE    GERMAN 
LITERARY    GENIUS. THE    DRACHENFELS. 

ON  leaving  Cologne,  the  stream  winds  round  among  banks 
that  do  not  yet  fulfil  the  promise  of  the  Rhine  ;  but  they 
increase  in  interest  as  you  leave  Surdt  and  Godorf.  The 
peculiar  character  of  the  river  does  not,  however,  really  appear, 
until  by  degrees  the  Seven  Mountains,  and  "THE  CASTLED 
CRAG  OF  DRACHENFELS"  above  them  all,  break  upon  the  eye. 
Around  Neider  Cassel  and  Rheidt,  the  vines  lie  thick  and 
clustering :  and,  by  the  shore,  you  see  from  place  to  place  the 
islands  stretching  their  green  length  along,  and  breaking  the 
exulting  tide.  Village  rises  upon  village,  and  viewed  from  the 
distance  as  you  sail,  the  pastoral  errors  that  enamoured  us  ol 
the  village  life  crowd  thick  and  fast  upon  us.  So  still  do 
these  hamlets  seem,  so  sheltered  from  the  passions  of  the 
world  ;  as  if  the  passions  were  not  like  winds — only  felt  where 
they  breathe,  and  invisible  save  by  their  effects  !  Leaping  into 
the  broad  bosom  of  the  Rhine  come  many  a  stream  and  rivulet 
upon  either  side.  Spire  upon  spire  rises  and  sinks  as  you 
sail  on.  Mountain  and  city — the  solitary  island — the  castled 
steep — like  the  dreams  of  ambition,  suddenly  appear,  proudly 
swell,  and  dimly  fade  away. 

"You  begin  now,"  said  Trevylyan,  " to  undertstand  the 
character  of  the  German  literature.  The  Rhine  is  an  emblem 
of  its  luxuriance,  its  fertility,  its  romance.  The  best  com- 
mentary to  the  German  genius  is  a  visit  to  the  German  scenery. 
The  mighty  gloom  of  the  Hartz,  the  feudal  towers  that  look 
over  vines  and  deep  valleys  on  the  legendary  Rhine  ;  the 
gigantic  remains  of  antique  power,  profusely  scattered  over 
plain,  mount,  and  forest;  the  thousand  mixed  recollections 
that  hallow  the  ground ;  the  stately  Roman,  the  stalwart 
Goth,  the  chivalry  of  the  feudal  age,  and  the  dim  brotherhood 
of  the  ideal  world,  have  here  alike  their  record  and  their 
remembrance.  And  over  such  scenes  wanders  the  young 
German  student.  Instead  of  the  pomp  and  luxury  of  the 
English  traveller,  the  thousand  devices  to  cheat  the  way,  he 
has  but  his  volume  in  his  hand,  his  knapsack  at  his  back. 
From  such  scenes  he  draws  and  hives  all  that  various  store 
which  after-years  ripen  to  invention.  Hence  the  florid  mixture 
of  the  German  muse — the  classic,  the  romantic,  the  contem- 
pJative,  the  philosophic,  and  the  superstitious.  Each  the  result 


78  THE    PILGRIMS    OF    THE    RHINE. 

of  actual  meditation  over  different  scenes.  Each  the  produce 
of  separate  but  confused  recollections.  As  the  Rhine  flows, 
so  flows  the  national  genius,  by  mountain  and  valley — the 
wildest  solitude — the  sudden  spires  of  ancient  cities — the 
mouldered  castle — the  stately  monastery — the  humble  cot. 
Grandeur  and  homeliness,  history  and  superstition,  truth  and 
fable,  succeeding  one  another  so  as  to  blend  into  a  whole. 

"  But,"  added  Trevylyan  a  moment  afterwards,  L'the  Ideal  is 
passing  slowly  away  from  the  German  mind  ;  a  spirit  for  the 
more  active  and  the  more  material  literature  is  springing  up 
amongst  them.  The  revolution  of  mind  gathers  on,  preceding 
stormy  events  ;  and  the  memories  that  led  their  grandsires  to 
contemplate,  will  urge  the  youth  of  the  next  generation  to  dare 
and  to  act."  * 

Thus  conversing,  they  continued  their  voyage,  with  a  fair 
wave  and  beneath  a  lucid  sky. 

The  vessel  now  glided  beside  the  Seven  Mountains  and  the 
Drachenfels. 

The  sun  slowly  setting  cast  his  yellow  beams  over  the 
smooth  waters.  At  the  foot  of  the  mountains  lay  a  village 
deeply  sequestered  in  shade ;  and  above,  the  Ruin  of  the 
Drachenfels  caught  the  richest  beams  of  the  sun.  Yet  thus 
alone,  though  lofty,  the  ray  cheered  not  the  gloom  that  hung 
•  over  the  giant  rock  ;  it  stood  on  high,  like  some  great  name 
on  which  the  light  of  glory  may  shine,  but  which  is  associated 
with  a  certain  melancholy,  from  the  solitude  to  which  its  very 
height  above  the  level  of  the  herd  condemned  its  owner  ! 


CHAPTER  X. 

THE    LEGEND    OF  ROLAND. — THE  ADVENTURES    OF    NYMPHALIN 

ON  THE  ISLAND  OF  NONNEWERTH. HER  SONG. THE  DECAY 

OF    THE    FAIRY-FAITH    IN    ENGLAND. 

ON  the  shore  opposite  the  Drachenfels  stand  the  Ruins  of 
Rolandseck  ;  they  are  the  shattered  crown  of  a  lofty  and 
perpendicular  mountain,  consecrated  to  the  memory  of  the 
brave  Roland  ;  below,  the  trees  of  an  island  to  which  the 
lady  of  Roland  retired  rise  thick  and  verdant  from  the  smooth 
tide. 

Nothing  can  exceed  the  eloquent  and  wild  grandeur  of  the 
whole  scene.  That  spot  is  the  pride  and  beauty  of  the  Rhine. 

The  legend  that  consecrates  the  tower  and  the  island  is 

*  It  not  this  prediction  already  fulfilled  ?— 1849. 


THE    PILGRIMS   OF    THE    RHINE.  79 

briefly  told  ;  it  belongs  to  a  class  so  common  to  the  Romaunts 
of  Germany.  Roland  goes  to  the  wars.  A  false  report  of  his 
death  reaches  his  betrothed.  She  retires  to  the  convent  in 
the  isle  of  Nonnewerth,  and  takes  the  irrevocable  veil.  Roland 
returns  home,  flushed  with  glory  and  hope,  to  find  that  the 
very  fidelity  of  his  affianced  had  placed  an  eternal  barrier  be- 
tween them.  He  built  the  castle  that  bears  his  name,  and 
which  overlooks  the  monastery,  and  dwelt  there  till  his  death  ; 
happy  in  the  power  at  least  to  gaze,  even  to  the  last,  upon 
those  walls  which  held  the  treasure  he  had  lost. 

The  willows  droop  in  mournful  luxuriance  along  the  island, 
and  harmonize  with  the  memory  that,  through  the  desert  of  a 
thousand  years,  love  still  keeps  green  and  fresh.  Nor  hath  it 
permitted  even  those  additions  of  fiction  which,  like  mosses, 
gather  by  time  over  the  truth  that  they  adorn,  yet  adorning 
conceal,  to  mar  the  simple  tenderness  of  the  legend. 

All  was  still  in  the  island  of  Nonnewerth  ;  the  lights  shone 
through  the  trees  from  the  house  that  contained  out  travellers. 
On  one  smooth  spot  where  the  islet  shelves  into  the  Rhine, 
met  the  wandering  fairies. 

"  Oh,  Pipalee  !  how  beautiful  !  "  cried  Nymphalin,  as  she 
stood  enraptured  by  the  wave  ;  a  star-beam  shining  on  her, 
with  her  yellow  hair  "dancing  its  ringlets  in  the  whistling 
wind."  "  For  the  first  time  since  our  departure  I  do  not  miss 
the  green  fields  of  England." 

"  Hist  !  "  said  Pipalee  under  her  breath  ;  "  I  hear  fairy 
steps — they  must  be  the  steps  of  strangers." 

"  Let  us  retreat  into  this  thicket  of  weeds,"  said  Nympha- 
lin, somewhat  alarmed  ;  "  the  good  lord-treasurer  is  already 
asleep  there."  They  whisked  into  what  to  them  was  a  forest, 
for  the  reeds  were  two  feet  high,  and  there,  sure  enough,  they 
found  the  lord-treasurer  stretched  beneath  a  bulrush,  with  his 
pipe  beside  him  :  for  since  he  had  been  in  Germany  he  had 
taken  to  smoking  :  and  indeed  wild  thyme,  properly  dried, 
makes  very  good  tobacco  for  a  fairy.  They  also  found  Nip 
and  Trip  sitting  very  close  together,  Nip  playing  with  her 
hair, 'which  was  exceedingly  beautiful. 

"What  do  you  do  here?"  said  Pipalee  shortly;  for  she 
was  rather  an  old  maid,  and  did  not  like  fairies  to  be  too  close 
to  each  other. 

"Watching  my  lord's  slumber,"  said  Nip. 

"  Pshaw  !  "  said  Pipalee. 

"  Nay,"  quoth  Trip,  blushing  like  a  sea-shell  ;  "  there  is  no 
harm  in  that,  I'm  sure." 


80  THE    PILGRIMS    OF    THE    RHINE. 

"  Hush  !  "  said  the  queen,  peeping  through  the  reeds. 

And  now  forth  from  the  green  bosom  of  the  earth  came  a 
tiny  train  ;  slowly,  two  by  two,  hand  in  hand,  they  swept  from 
a  small  aperture,  shadowed  with  fragrant  herbs,  and  formed 
themselves  into  a  ring  :  then  came  other  fairies,  laden  with 
dainties,  and  presently  two  beautiful  white  mushrooms  sprang 
up,  on  which  their  viands  were  placed,  and  la,  there  was  a  ban- 
quet !  Oh,  how  merry  they  were  !  What  gentle  peals  of 
laughter,  loud  as  a  virgin's  sigh  !  What  jests  !  What  songs  ! 
Happy  race  !  if  mortals  could  see  you  as  often  as  I  do,  in  the 
soft  nights  of  summer,  they  would  never  be  at  a  loss  for  enter- 
tainment. But  as  our  English  fairies  looked  on,  they  saw  that 
these  foreign  elves  were  of  a  different  race  from  themselves  ; 
they  were  taller  and  less  handsome  ;  their  hair  was  darker, 
they  wore  mustaches,  and  had  something  of  a  fiercer  air. 
Poor  Nymphalin  was  a  little  frightened  ;  but  presently  soft 
music  was  heard  floating  along,  something  like  the  sound  we 
suddenly  hear  of  a  still  night  when  a  light  breeze  steals  through 
rushes,  or  wakes  a  ripple  in  some  shallow  brook  dancing  over 
pebbles.  And  lo,  from  the  aperture  of  the  earth  came  forth  a 
fay,  superbly  dressed,  and  of  a  noble  presence.  The  queen 
started  back,  Pipalee  rubbed  her  eyes,  Trip  looked  over  Pipa- 
lee's  shoulder,  and  Nip,  pinching  her  arm,  cried  out  amazed  : 
"  By  the  last  new  star,  that  is  Prince  von  Fayzenheim  ! " 

Poor  Nymphalin  gazed  again,  and  her  little  heart  beat  under 
her  bee's-wing  bodice  as  if  it  would  break.  The  prince  had  a 
melancholy  air,  and  he  sat  apart  from  the  banquet,  gazing  ab- 
stractedly on  the  Rhine. 

"  Ah  !  "  whispered  Nymphalin  to  herself,  "  does  he  think  of 
me  ?" 

Presently  the  prince  drew  forth  a  little  flute,  hollowed  from 
a  small  reed,  and  began  to  play  a  mournful  air.  Nymphalin 
listened  with  delight  ;  it  was  one  he  had  learned  in  her  do- 
minions. 

When  the  air  was  over,  the  prince  rose,  and,  approaching 
the  banqueters,  despatched  them  on  different  errands  ;  one  to 
visit  the  dwarf  of  the  Drachenfels,  another  to  look  after  the 
grave  of  Musaeus,  and  a  whole  detachment  to  puzzle  the  stu- 
dents of  Heidelberg.  A  few  launched  themselves  upon  willow 
leaves  on  the  Rhine,  to  cruise  about  in  the  starlight,  and 
another  band  set  out  a-hunting  after  the  gray-legged  moth. 
The  prince  was  left  alone  ;  and  now  Nymphalin,  seeing  the 
coast  clear,  wrapped  herself  up  in  a  cloak  made  out  of  a 
withered  leaf ;  and  only  letting  her  eyes  glow  out  from  the 


THE   PILGRIMS   OF    THE   kHlNE.  8l 

hood,  she  glided  from  the  reeds,  and  the  prince  turning  round, 
saw  a  dark  fairy  figure  by  his  side.  He  drew  back,  a  little 
startled,  and  placed  his  hand  on  his  sword,  when  Nymphalin, 
circling  round  him,  sang  the  following  words  : 

THE  FAIRY'S  REPROACH. 


By  the  glow-worm's  lamp  in  the  dewy  brake  ; 

By  the  gossamer's  airy  rut  ; 
By  the  shifting  skin  of  the  faithless  snake  ; 
Oh,  teach  me  to  forget  : 

For  none,  ah  none, 
Can  teach  so  well  that  human  spell 
As  Thou,  false  one  ! 

II. 
By  the  fairy  dance  on  the  greensward  smooth  ; 

By  the  winds  of  the  gentle  west  ; 
By  the  loving  stars,  when  their  soft  looks  soothe 
The  waves  on  their  mother's  breast  ; 

Teach  me  thy  lore  ! 
By  whicjr^  like  withered  flowers, 
The  leaves  of  buried  Hours 
Blossom  no  more  ! 

III. 
By  the  tent  in  the  violet's  bell  ; 

By  the  may  on  the  scented  bough  ; 
By  the  lone  green  isle  where  my  sisters  dwell ; 
And  thine  own  forgotten  vow  ; 

Teach  me  to  live. 
Nor  feed  on  thoughts  that  pine 
For  love  so  false  as  thine  ! 
— Teach  me  thy  lore, 
And  one  thou  lov'st  no  more 

Will  bless  thee  and  forgive  ! 

"  Surely,"  said  Fayzenheim,  faltering,  "  surely  I  know  that 
voice  !  " 

And  Nymphalin's  cloak  dropped  off  her  shoulder.  "  My 
English  fairy  ! "  and  Fayzenheim  knelt  beside  her. 

I  wish  you  had  seen  the  fay  kneel,  for  you  would  have  sworn 
it  was  so  like  a  human  lover,  that  you  would  never  have  sneered 
at  love  afterwards.  Love  is  so  fairy-like  a  part  of  us,  that 
even  a  fairy  cannot  make  it  differently  from  us — that  is  to  say, 
when  we  love  truly. 

There  was  great  joy  in  the  island  that  night  among  the  elves. 
They  conducted  Nymphalin  to  their  palace  within  the  earth, 
and  feasted  her  sumptuously  ;  and  Nip  told  their  adventures 
with  so  much  spirit,  that  he  enchanted  the  merry  foreigners. 


82  THE   PILGRIMS   OP   THE   RHINE, 

But  Fayzenheim  talked  apart  to  Nymphalin,  and  told  her  how 
he  was  lord  of  that  island,  and  how  he  had  been  obliged  to 
return  to  his  dominions  by  the  law  of  his  tribe,  which  allowed 
him  to  be  absent  only  a  certain  time  in  every  year.  "  But,  my 
queen,  I  always  intended  to  revisit  thee  next  spring." 

"  Thou  need'st  not  have  left  us  so  abruptly,"  said  Nympha- 
lin,  blushing. 

"  But  do  thou  never  leave  me  !  "  said  the  ardent  fairy  ;  "  be 
mine,  and  let  our  nuptials  be  celebrated  on  these  shores. 
Wouldst  thou  sigh  for  thy  green  island  ?  No  !  for  there  the 
fairy  altars  are  deserted,  the  faith  is  gone  from  the  land  ;  thou 
art  among  the  last  of  an  unhonored  and  expiring  race.  Thy 
mortal  poets  are  dumb,  and  Fancy,  which  was  thy  priestess, 
sleeps  hushed  in  her  last  re'pose.  New  and  hard  creeds  have 
succeeded  to  the  fairy  lore.  Who  steals  through  the  starlit 
boughs  on  the  nights  of  June  to  watch  the  roundels  of  thy 
tribe  ?  The  wheels  of  commerce,  the  din  of  trade,  have  silenced 
to  mortal  ear  the  music  of  thy  subjects'  harps  !  And  the  noisy 
habitations  of  men,  harsher  than  their  dreaming  sires,  are 
gathering  round  the  dell  and  vale  where  thy  co-mates  linger — 
a  few  years  and  where  will  be  the  green  solitudes  of  England  ?" 

The  queen  sighed,  and  the  prince,  perceiving  that  he  was 
listened  to,  continued  : 

"  Who,  in  thy  native  shores,  among  the  children  of  men,  now 
claims  the  fairy's  care?  What  cradle  wouldst  thou  tend  ?  On 
what  maid  wouldst  thou  shower  thy  rosy  gifts  ?  What  bard 
wouldst  thou  haunt  in  his  dreams?  Poesy  is  fled  the  island, 
why  shouldst  thou  linger  behind  ?  Time  hath  brought  dull 
customs,  that  laugh  at  thy  gentle  being.  Puck  is  buried  in 
the  harebell,  he  has  left  no  offspring,  and  none  mourn  for  his 
loss  ;  for  night,  which  is  the  fairy  season,  is  busy  and  garish 
as  the  day.  What  hearth  is  desolate  after  the  curfew?  What 
house  bathed  in  stillness  at  the  hour  in  which  thy  revels  com- 
mence ?  Thine  empire  among  men  has  passed  from  thee,  and 
thy  race  are  vanishing  from  the  crowded  soil.  For,  despite 
our  diviner  nature,  our  existence  is  linked  with  man's.  Their 
neglect  is  our  disease,  their  forgetfulness  our  death.  Leave 
then  those  dull,  yet  troubled  scenes,  that  are  closing  round  the 
fairy  rings  of  thy  native  isle.  These  mountains,  this  herbage, 
these  gliding  waves,  those  mouldering  ruins,  these  starred 
rivulets,  be  they,  O  beautiful  fairy,  thy  new  domain.  Yet  in 
these  lands  our  worship  lingers  ;  still  can  we  fill  the  thought 
of  the  young  bard,  and  mingle  with  his  yearnings  after  the 
Beautiful,  the  Unseen.  Hither  come  the  pilgrims  of  the  world, 


THE    PILGRIMS   OF    THE    RHINE.  83 

anxious  only  to  gather  from  these  scenes  the  legends  of  Us  ; 
ages  will  pass  away  ere  the  Rhine  shall  be  desecrated  of  our 
haunting  presence.  Come  then,  my  queen,  let  this  palace  be 
thine  own,  and  the  moon  that  glances  over  the  shattered  towers 
of  the  Dragon  Rock  witness  our  nuptials  and  our  vows  !  " 

In  such  words  the  fairy  prince  courted  the  young  queen,  and 
while  she  sighed  at  their  truth  she  yielded  to  their  charm.  Oh  ! 
still  may  there  be  one  spot  on  the  earth  where  the  fairy  feet 
may  press  the  legendary  soil — still  be  there  one  land  where 
the  faith  of  The  Bright  Invisible  hallows  and  inspires  !  Still 
glide  thou,  O  majestic  and  solemn  Rhine,  among  shades  and 
valleys,  from  which  the  wisdom  of  belief  can  call  the  creations 
of  the  younger  world  ! 

CHAPTER  XI. 

WHEREIN  THE  READER  IS  MADE  SPECTATOR  WITH  THE 
ENGLISH  FAIRIES  OF  THE  SCENES  AND  BEINGS  THAT  ARE 
BENEATH  THE  EARTH. 

DURING  the  heat  of  next  day's  noon,  Fayzenheim  took  the 
English  visitors  through  the  cool  caverns  that  wind  amidst  the 
mountains  of  the  Rhine.  There,  a  thousand  wonders  awaited 
the  eyes  of  the  fairy  queen.  I  speak  not  of  the  gothic  arch 
and  aisle  into  which  the  hollow  earth  forms  itself,  or  the  stream 
that  rushes  with  a  mighty  voice  through  the  dark  chasm,  or 
the  silver  columns  that  shoot  aloft,  worked  by  the  gnomes 
from  the  mines  of  the  mountains  of  Taunus  ;  but  of  the  strange 
inhabitants  that  from  time  to  time  they  came  upon.  They 
found  in  one  spJitary  cell,  lined  with  dried  moss,  two  mis- 
shapen elves,  of  a  larger  size  than  common,  with  a  plebeian, 
working-day  aspect,  who  were  chatting  noisily  together,  and 
making  a  pair  of  boots  :  these  were  the  Hausmannen  or 
domestic  elves,  that  dance  into  tradesmen's  houses  of  a  night, 
and  play  all  sorts  of  undignified  tricks.  They  were  very  civil 
to  the  queen,  for  they  are  good-natured  creatures  on  the  whole, 
and  once  had  many  relations  in  Scotland.  They  then,  follow- 
ing the  course  of  a  noisy  rivulet,  came  to  a  hole,  from  which 
the  sharp  head  of  a  fox  peeped  -rout.  The  queen  was  fright- 
ened. "  Oh,  come  on,"  said  the  fox  encouragingly,  "  I  am 
one  of  the  fairy  race,  and  many  are  the  gambols  we  of  the 
brute-elves  play  in  the  German  world  of  romance."  "Indeed, 
Mr.  Fox,"  said  the  prince,  "  you  only  speak  the  truth  ;  and 
how  is  Mr.  Bruin  ?  "  "  Quite  well,  my  prince  ;  but  tired  of 
his  seclusion,  for  indeed  our  race  can  do  little  or  nothing  now 


84  THE   PILGRIMS   OF    THE   RHINE. 

in  the  world,  and  lie  here  in  our  old  age,  telling  stories  of  the 
past,  and  recalling  the  exploits  we  did  in  our  youth  ;  which, 
madam,  you  may  see  in  all  the  fairy  histories  in  the  prince's 
library." 

"  Your  own  love-adventures,  for  instance,  Master  Fox,"  said 
the  prince. 

The  fox  snarled  angrily,  and  drew  in  his  head. 
,"  You  have  displeased  your  friend,"  said  Nymphalin. 

"  Yes  ;  he  likes  no  allusions  to  the  amorous  follies  of  his 
youth.  Did  you  ever  hear  of  his  rivalry  with  the  dog  for  the 
cat's  good  graces  ?  " 

"  No  ;  that  must  be  very  amusing." 

"  Well,  my  queen,  when  we  rest  by  and  by,  I  will  relate  to 
you  the  history  of  the  fox's  wooing." 

The  next  place  they  came  to  was  a  vast  Runic  cavern, 
covered  with  dark  inscriptions  of  a  forgotten  tongue  :  and  sit- 
ting on  a  huge  stone  they  found  a  dwarf  with  long  yellow  hair, 
his  head  leaning  on  his  breast,  and»absorbed  in  meditation. 

"  This  is  a  spirit  of  a  wise  and  powerful  race,"  whispered 
Fayzenheim,  "  that  has  often  battled  with  the  fairies  ;  but  he 
is  of  the  kindly  tribe." 

Then  the  dwarf  lifted  his  head  with  a  mournful  air  ;  and 
gazed  upon  the  bright  shapes  before  him,  lighted  by  the  pine- 
torches  that  the  prince's  attendants  carried. 

"  And  what  dost  thou  muse  upon,  O  descendant  of  the  race 
of  Laurin  ? "  said  the  prince. 

"Upon  TIME!"  answered  the  dwarf  gloomily.  "I  see  a 
River,  and  its  waves  are  black,  flowing  from  the  clouds,  and 
none  knoweth  its  source.  It  rolls  deeply  on,  aye  and  ever- 
more, through  a  green  valley,  which  it  slowly  swallows  up, 
washing  away  tower  and  town,  and  vanquishing  all  things  ; 
and  the  name  of  the  River  is  TIME." 

Then  the  dwarf's  head  sunk  on  his  bosom,  and  he  spoke  no 
more. 

The  fairies  proceeded.  "  Above  us,"  said  the  prince,  "  rises 
one  of  the  loftiest  mountains  of  the  Rhine  ;  for  mountains  are 
the  dwarf's  home.  When  the  Great  Spirit  of  All  made  earth, 
he  saw  that  the  hollows  of  the,. rocks  and  hills  were  tenantless  ; 
and  yet,  that  a  mighty  kingdom  and  great  palaces  were  hid 
within  them  ;  a  dread  and  dark  solitude  :  but  lighted  at  times 
from  the  starry  eyes  of  many  jewels  ;  and  there,  was  the 
treasure  of  the  human  world — gold  and  silver — and  great  heaps 
of  gems,  and  a  soil  of  metals.  So  God  made  a  race  for  this 
vast  empire,  and  gifted  them  with  the  power  of  thought,  and 


THE    PILGRIMS    OF    THE    RHINE.  85 

the  soul  of  exceeding  wisdom  ;  so  that  they  want  not  the  mer- 
riment and  enterprise  of  the  outer  world  :  but  musing  in  these 
dark  caves  is  their  delight.  Their  existence  rolls  away  in  the 
luxury  of  thought ;  only  from  time  to  time  they  appear  in  the 
world,  and  betoken  woe  or  weal  to  men  ;  according  to  their 
nature — for  they  are  divided  into  two  tribes,  the  benevolent 
and  the  wrathful."  While  the  prince  spoke,  they  saw  glaring 
upon  them  from  a  ledge  in  the  upper  rock  a  grisly  face  with  a 
long  matted  beard.  The  prince  gathered  himself  up,  and 
frowned  at  the  evil  dwarf,  for  such  it  was  ;  but  with  a  wild 
laugh  the  face  abruptly  disappeared,  and  the  echo  of  the  laugh 
rang  with  a  ghastly  sound  through  the  long  hollows  of  the 
earth. 

The  queen  clung  to  Fayzenheim's  arm.  "  Fear  not,  my 
queen,"  said  he  ;  "  the  evil  race  have  no  power  over  our  light 
and  aerial  nature  :  with  men  only  they  war;  and  he  whom  we 
have  seen  was,  in  the  old  ages  of  the  world,  one  of  the  dead- 
liest visitors  to  mankind." 

But  now  they  came  winding  by  a  passage  to  a  beautiful 
recess  in  the  mountain  empire  ;  it  was  of  a  circular  shape  of 
amazing  height,  in  the  midst  of  it  played  a  natural  fountain  of 
sparkling  waters,  and  around  it  were  columns  of  massive 
granite,  rising  in  countless  vistas,  till  lost  in  the  distant  shade. 
Jewels  were  scattered  round,  and  brightly  played  the  fairy 
torches  on  the  gem,  the  fountain,  and  the  pale  silver,  that 
gleamed  at  frequent  intervals  from  the  rocks.  "  Here  let  us 
rest,"  said  the  gallant  fairy,  clapping  his  hands  ;  "  what,  ho  ! 
music  and  the  feast." 

So  the  feast  was  spread  by  the  fountain's  side  ;  and  the 
courtiers  scattered  rose-leaves,  which  they  had  brought  with 
them,  for  the  prince  and  his  visitor  ;  and  amidst  the  dark 
kingdom  of  the  dwarfs  broke  the  delicate  sound  of  fairy  lutes. 
"  We  have  not  these  evil  beings  in  England,"  said  the  queen, 
as  low  as  she  could  speak  ;  "  they  rouse  my  fear,  but  my  in- 
terest also.  Tell  me,  dear  prince,  of  what  nature  was  the 
intercourse  of  the  evil  dwarf  with  man?" 

"  You  know,"  answered  the  .prince,  "  that  to  every  species 
of  living  thing  there  is  something  in  common  ;  the  vast  chain 
of  sympathy  runs  through  all  creation.  By  that  which  they 
have  in  common  with  the  beast  of  the  field  or  the  bird  of  the 
air,  men  govern  the  inferior  tribes  ;  they  appeal  to  the  common 
passions  of  fear  and  emulation  when  they  tame  the  wild  steed  ; 
to  the  common  desire  of  greed  and  gain  when  they  snare  the 
fishes  of  the  stream,  or  allure  the  wolves  to  the  pitfall  by  th$ 


» 


86  THE    PILGRIMS    OF    THE    RHINE. 

bleating  of  the  lamb.  In  their  turn,  in  the  older  ages  of  the 
world,  it  was  by  the  passions  which  men  had  in  common  with 
the  demon  race  that  the  fiends  commanded  or  allured  them. 
The  dwarf  whom  you  saw,  being  of  that  race  which  is  charac- 
terized by  the  ambition  of  power  and  the  desire  of  hoarding, 
appealed  then  in  his  intercourse  with  men  to  the  same  charac- 
teristics in  their  own  bosoms  ;  to  ambition  or  to  avarice.  And 
thus  were  his  victims  made  !  But,  not  now,  dearest  Nympha- 
lin,"  continued  the  prince,  with  a  more  lively  air — "  not  now 
will  we  speak  of  those  gloomy  beings.  Ho,  there  !  cease  the 
music,  and  come  hither  all  of  ye,  to  listen  to  a  faithful  and 
homely  history  of  the  Dog,  the  Cat,  the  Griffin,  and  the  Fox." 


CHAPTER  XII. 

THE  WOOING  OF  MASTER  FOX.* 

You  are  aware,  my  dear  Nymphalin,  that  in  the  time  of  which 
I  am  about  to  speak  there  was  no  particular  enmity  between 
the  various  species  of  brutes  ;  the  dog  and  the  hare  chatted 
very  agreeably  together,  and  all  the  world  knows  that  the  wolf, 
unacquainted  with  mutton,  had  a  particular  affection  for  the 
lamb.  In  these  happy  days,  two  most  respectable  cats,  of  very 
old  family,  had  an  only  daughter  :  never  was  kitten  more  ami- 
able or  more  seducing  ;  as  she  grew  up  she  manifested  so 
many  charms,  that  in  a  little  while  she  became  noted  as  the 
greatest  beauty  in  the  neighborhood  :  need  I  to  you,  dearest 
Nymphalin,  describe  her  perfections  ?  Suffice  it  to  say  that 
her  skin  was  of  the  most  delicate  tortoise  shell,  that  her  paws 
were  smoother  than  velvet,  that  her  whiskers  "were  twelve 
inches  long  at  the  least,  and  that  her  eyes  had  a  gentleness 
altogether  astonishing  in  a  cat.  But  if  the  young  beauty  had 
suitors  in  plenty  during  the  lives  of  monsieur  and  madame, 
you  may  suppose  the  number  was  not  diminished  when,  at  the 
age  of  two  years  and  a  half,  she  was  left  an  orphan,  and  sole 
heiress  to  all  the  hereditary  property.  In  fine,  she  was  the  rich- 
est marriage  in  the  whole  country.  Without  troubling  you, 
dearest  queen,  with  the  adventures  of  the  rest  of  her  lovers, 

*  In  the  excursions  of  the  fairies,  it  is  the  object  of  the  author  to  bring  before  the  reader 
a  rapid  phantasmagoria  of  the  various  beings  that  belonged  to  the  German  superstitions,  so 
that  the  work  may  thus  describe  the  outer  and  the  inner  world  of  the  land  of  the  Rhine. 
The  tale  of  the  Fox's  Wooing  has  been  composed  to  give  the  English  reader  an  idea  of  a 
species  of  novel  not  naturalized  amongst  us,  though  frequent  among  the  legends  of  our  Irish 
neighbors  ;  in  which  the  brutes  are  the  only  characters  drawn — drawn  too,  with  shades  Q( 
Distinction  as  nic?  and  subtle  as  jf  they  were  the  creatures  Of  the  civilized  world. 


THE    PILGRIMS   OF    THE    RHINE.  87 

with  their  suit,  and  their  rejection,  I  come  at  once  to  the  two 
rivals  most  sanguine  of  success — the  dog  and  the  fox. 

Now  the  dog  was  a  handsome,  honest,  straightforward,  affec- 
tionate fellow.  "  For  my  part,"  said  he,  "  I  don't  wonder  at 
my  cousin's  refusing  Bruin  the  bear,  and  Gauntgrim  the  wolf : 
to  be  sure  they  give  themselves  great  airs,  and  call  themselves 
'  noble  1  but  what  then  ?  Bruin  is  always  in  the  sulks,  and 
Gauntgrim  always  in  a  passion  ;  a  cat  of  any  sensibility  would 
lead  a  miserable  life  with  them  :  as  for  me,  I  am  very  good- 
tempered  when  I'm  not  put  out  ;  and  I  have  no  fault  except 
that  of  being  angry  if  disturbed  at  my  meals.  I  am  young  and 
good-looking,  fond  of  play  and  amusement,  and  altogether  as 
agreeable  a  husband  as  a  cat  could  find  in  a  summer's  day. 
If  she  marries  me,  well  and  good  ;  she  may  have  her  property 
settled  on  herself  ;  if  not,  I  shall  bear  her  no  malice  ;  and  I 
hope  I  shan't  be  too  much  in  love  to  forget  that  there  are  other 
cats  in  the  world." 

With  that  the  dog  threw  his  tail  over  his  back,  and  set  off  to 
his  mistress  with  a  gay  face  on  the  matter. 

Now  the  fox  heard  the  dog  talking  thus  to  himself,  for  the 
fox  was  always  peeping  about,  in  holes  and  corners,  and  he 
burst  out  a-laughing  when  the  dog  was  out  of  sight. 

"  Ho,  ho,  my  fine  fellow  !  "  said  he  ;  "  not  so  fast,  if  you 
please  :  you've  got  the  fox  for  a  rival,  let  me  teil  you." 

The  fox,  as  you  very  well  know,  is  a  beast  that  can  never  do 
anything  without  a  manoeuvre  ;  and  as,  from  his  cunning, 
he  was  generally  very  lucky  in  anything  he  undertook,  he  did 
not  doubt  fora  moment  that  he  should  put  the  dog's  nose  out 
of  joint.  Reynard  was  aware  that  in  love  one  should  always, 
if  possible,  be  the  first  in  the  field,  and  he  therefore  resolved 
to  get  the  start  of  the  dog  and  arrive  before  him  at  the  cat's 
residence.  But  this  was  no  easy  matter  ;  for  though  Reynard 
could  run  faster  than  the  dog  for  a  little  way,  he  was  no  match 
for  him  in  a  journey  of  some  distance.  "  However,"  said  Rey- 
nard, "  those  good-natured  creatures  are  never  very  wise  ; 
and  I  think  I  know  already  what  will  make  him  bait  on  his 
way." 

With  that,  the  fox  trotted  pretty  fast  by  a  short  cut  in  the 
woods,  and  getting  before  the  dog,  laid  himself  down  by  a 
hole  in  the  earth,  and  began  to  howl  most  piteously. 

The  dog,  hearing  the  noise,  was  very  much  alarmed  ;  "  See 
now,"  said  he,  "  if  the  poor  fox  has  not  got  himself  into  some 
scrape!  Those  cunning  creatures  are  always  in  mischief; 
thank  Heaven,  it  never  gpmes  into  my  head  to  be  cunning  !  " 


83  THE    PILGRIMS   OF    THE    RHINE. 

And  the  good-natured  animal  ran  off  as  hard  as  he  could  to 
see  what  was  the  matter  with  the  fox. 

"  Oh  dear  !  "  cried  Reynard  ;  "  what  shall  I  do,  what  shall 
I  do  !  My  poor  little  sister  has  fallen  into  this  hole,  and  I 
can't  get  her  out — she'll  certainly  be  smothered."  And  the 
fox  burst  out  a-howling  more  piteously  than  before. 

"  But,  my  dear  Reynard,"  quoth  the  dog  very  simply,  "why 
don't  you  go  in  after  your  sister? " 

"Ah,  you  may  well  ask  that,"  said  the  fox  ;  "but,  in  trying 
to  get  in,  don't  you  perceive  that  I  have  sprained  my  back, 
and  can't  stir  ?  Oh  dear  !  what  shall  I  do  if  my  poor  little 
sister  is  smothered  !  " 

"  Pray  don't  vex  yourself,"  said  the  dog  ;  "  I'll  get  her  out 
in  an  instant":  and  with  that  he  forced  himself  with  great  diffi- 
culty into  the  hole. 

Now,  no  sooner  did  the  fox  see  that  the  dog  was  fairly  in, 
then  he  rolled  a  great  stone  to  the  mouth  of  the  hole,  and  fitted 
it  so  tight,  that  the  dog,  not  being  able  to  turn  round  and 
scratch  against  it  with  his  fore-paws,  was  made  a  close  prisoner. 

"  Ha,  ha  !  "  cried  Reynard,  laughing  outside  ;  "  amuse  your- 
self with  my  poor  little  sister,  while  I  go  and  make  your  com- 
pliments to  Mademoiselle  the  Cat." 

With  that  Reynard  set  off  at  an  easy  pace,  never  troubling 
his  head  what  became  of  the  poor  dog.  When  he  arrived  in 
the  neighborhood  of  the  beautiful  cat's  mansion,  he  resolved 
to  pay  a  visit  to  a  friend  of  his,  an  old  magpie  that  lived  in  a 
tree,  and  was  well  acquainted  with  all  the  news  of  the  place. 
"For,"  thought  Reynard,  "I  may  as  well  know  the  blind  side 
of  my  mistress  that  is  to  be,  and  get  round  it  at  once." 

The  magpie  received  the  fox  with  great  cordiality,  and 
inquired  what  brought  him  so  great  a  distance  from  home. 

"  Upon  my  word,"  said  the  fox,  "  nothing  so  much  as  the 
pleasure  of  seeing  your  ladyship,  and  hearing  those  agreeable 
anecdote^  you  tell  with  so  charming  a  grace  :  but,  to  let  you 
into  a  secret — be  sure  it  don't  go  farther — " 

"  On  the  word  of  a  magpie,"  interrupted  the  bird. 

"  Pardon  me  for  doubting  you,"  continued  the  fox  ;  "  I 
should  have  recollected  that  a  pie  was  a  proverb  for  discretion. 
But,  as  I  was  saying,  you  know  her  majesty  the  lioness?" 

"  Surely,"  said  the  magpie,  bridling. 

"  Well,  she  was  pleased  to  fall  in — that  is  to  say — to — to — 
take  a  caprice  to  your  humble  servant,  and  the  lion  grew  so 
jealous  that  I  thought  it  prudent  to  decamp.  A  jealous  lion 
is'MD  joke,  let  me  assure  your  ladyship.  But  mum's  the  word," 


THE    PILGRIMS   OF    THE    RHINE.  89 

So  great  a  piece  of  news  delighted  the  magpie.  She  could 
tiot  but  repay  it  in  kind,  by  all  the  news  in  her  budget.  She 
told  the  fox  all  the  scandal  about  Bruin  and  Gauntgrim,  and 
she  then  fell  to  work  on  the  poor  young  cat.  She  did  not 
spare  her  foibles,  you  may  be  quite  sure.  The  fox  listened 
with  great  attention,  and  he  learned  enough  to  convince  him, 
that  however  much  the  magpie  might  exaggerate,  the  cat  was 
very  susceptible  to  flattery,  and  had  a  great  deal  of  imagi- 
nation. 

When  the  magpie  had  finished,  she  said,  "  But  it  must  be 
very  unfortunate  for  you  to  be  banished  from  so  magnificent 
a  court  as  that  of  the  lion  ?" 

"  As  to  that,"  answered  the  fox,  "  I  consoled  myself  for 
my  exile  with  a  present  his  majesty  made  me  on  parting,  as  a 
reward  for  my  anxiety  for  his  honor  and  domestic  tranquillity; 
namely,  three  hairs  from  the  fifth  leg  of  the  amoronthologos- 
phorus.  Only  think  of  that,  ma'am  !  " 

"  The  what  ?  "  cried  the  pie,  cocking  down  her  left  ear. 

"  The  amoronthologosphorus." 

"  La  !  "  said  the  magpie  ;  "  and  what  is  that  very  long  word, 
my  dear  Reynard  ?  " 

"  The  amoronthologosphorus  is  a  beast  that  lives  on  the 
other  side  of  the  river  Cylinx  ;  it  has  five  legs,  and  on  the 
fifth  leg  there  are  three  hairs,  and  whoever  has  those  three 
hairs  can  be  young  and  beautiful  forever." 

"  Bless  me  !  I  wish  you  would  let  me  see  them,"  said  the 
pie,  holding  out  her  claw. 

"Would  that  I  could  oblige  you,  ma'am  ;  but  it's  as  much 
as  my  life's  worth  to  show  them  to  any  but  the  lady  I  marry. 
In  fact,  they  only  have  an  effect  on  the  fair  sex,  as  you  may 
see  by  myself,  whose  poor  person  they  utterly  fail  to  improve: 
there  are,  therefore,  intended  for  a  marriage  present,  and  his 
majesty  the  lion  thus  generously  atoned  to  me  for  relinquish- 
ing the  tenderness  of  his  queen.  One  must  confess  that  there 
was  a  great  deal  of  delicacy  in  the  gift.  But  you'll  be  sure 
not  to  mention  it." 

"  A  magpie  gossip,  indeed  !  '  quoth  the  old  blab. 

The  fox  then  wished  the  magpie  good-night,  and  retired  to 
a  hole  to  sleep  off  the  fatigues  of  the  day  before  he  presented 
himself  to  the  beautiful  young  cat. 

The  next  morning,  Heaven  knows  how  !  it  was  all  over  the 
place  that  Reynard  the  fox  had  been  banished  from  court 
for  the  favor  shown  him  by  her  majesty,  and  that  the 
lion  had  bribed  his  departure  with  three  hairs  that  would 


9<3  THE    PILGRIMS   OF    THE    RHINE. 

make  any  lady  whom  the  fox  married  young  and  beautiful 
forever. 

The  cat  was  the  first  to  learn  the  news,  and  she  became  all 
curiosity  to  see  so  interesting  a  stranger,  possessed  of  "  quali- 
fications "  which,  in  the  language  of  the  day,  "  would  render 
any  animal  happy  !  "  She  was  not  long  without  obtaining  her 
wish.  As  she  was  taking  a  walk  in  the  wood  the  fox  contrived 
to  encounter  her.  You  may  be  sure  that  he  made  her  his  best 
bow ;  and  he  flattered  the  poor  cat  with  so  courtly  an  air  that 
she  saw  nothing  surprising  in  the  love  of  the  lioness. 

Meanwhile  let  us  see  what  became  of  his  rival,  the  dog. 

"  Ah,  the  poor  creature  !  "  said  Nymphalin  ;  "  it  is  easy  to 
guess  that  he  need  not  be  buried  alive  to  lose  all  chance  of 
marrying  the  heiress." 

"  Wait  till  the  end,"  answered  Fayzenheim.  When  the  dog 
found  that  he  was  thus  entrapped,  he  gave  himself  up  for  lost. 
In  vain  he  kicked  with  his  hind-legs  against  the  stone  ;  he 
only  succeeded  in  bruising  his  paws  ;  and  at  length  he  was 
forced  to  lie  down,  with  his  tongue  out  of  his  mouth,  and  quite 
exhausted.  "  However,"  said  he,  after  he  had  taken  breath, 
"  it  won't  do  to  be  starved  here,  without  doing  my  best  to 
escape  ;  and  if  I  can't  get  out  one  way,  let  me  see  if  there  is 
not  a  hole  at  the  other  end."  Thus  saying,  his  courage,  which 
stood  him  in  lieu  of  cunning,  returned,  and  he  proceeded  on 
in  the  same  straightforward  way  in  which  he  always  conducted 
himself.  At  first  the  path  was  exceedingly  narrow,  and  he 
hurt  his  sides  very  much  against  the  rough  stones  that  pro- 
jected from  the  earth.  But  by  degrees  the  way  became 
broader,  and  4ie  now  went  on  with  considerable  ease  to  himself, 
till  he  arrived  in  a  large  cavern,  where  he  saw  an  immense 
griffin  sitting  on  his  tail,  and  smoking  a  huge  pipe. 

The  dog  was  by  no  means  pleased  at  meeting  so  sud- 
denly a  creature  that  had  only  to  open  his  mouth  to  swallow 
him  up  at  a  morsel ;  however  he  put  a  bold  face  on  the  danger, 
and  walking  respectfully  up  to  the  griffin,  said  :  "Sir,  I  should 
be  very  much  obliged  to  you  if  you  would  inform  me  the  way 
out  of  these  holes  into  the  upper  world." 

The  griffin  took  the  pipe  out  of  his  mouth,  and  looked  at 
the  dog  very  sternly. 

"  Ho,  wretch  !  "  said  he,  "  how  comest  thou  hither  ?  I  sup- 
pose thou  wantest  to  steal  my  treasure  :  but  I  know  how  to 
treat  such  vagabonds  as  you,  and  I  shall  certainly  eat  you  up." 

"You  can  do  that  if  you  choose,"  said  the  dog;  "but  it 
would  be  very  unhandsome  conduct  in  an  animal  so  much 


THE    PILGRIMS    OF    THE    RHINE.  <)1 

bigger  than  myself.  For  my  own  part,  I  never  attack  any  dpg 
that  is  not  of  equal  size  :  I  should  be  ashamed  of  myself  if  I 
did.  And  as  to  your  treasure,  the  character  I  bear  for  honesty 
is  too  well  known  to  merit  such  a  suspicion." 

"  Upon  my  word,"  said  the  griffin,  who  could  not  help  smil- 
ing for  the  life  of  him,  "  you  have  a  singularly  free  mode  of 
expressing  yourself — and  how,  I  say,  came  you  hither  ?" 

Then  the  dog,  who  did  not  know  what  a  lie  was,  told  the 
griffin  his  whole  history  :  how  he  had  set  off  to  pay  his  court 
to  the  cat,  and  how  Reynard  the  fox  had  entrapped  him  into 
the  hole. 

When  he  had  finished,  the  griffin  said  to  him  :  "  I  see,  my 
friend,  that  you  know  how  to  speak  the  truth  ;  I  am  in  want  of 
just  such  a  servant  as  you  will  make  me,  therefore  stay  with 
me  and  keep  watch  over  my  treasure  when  I  sleep." 

"  Two  words  to  that,"  said  the  dog.  "  You  have  hurt  my 
feelings  very  much  by  suspecting  my  honesty,  and  I  would 
much  sooner  go  back  into  the  wood  and  be  avenged  on  that 
scoundrel  the  fox,  than  serve  a  master  who  has  so  ill  an  opinion 
of  me.-  I  pray  you,  therefore,  to  dismiss  me,  and  to  put  me  in 
the  right  way  to  my  cousin  the  cat." 

"  I  am  not  a  griffin  of  many  words,"  answered  the  master  of 
the  cavern,  "  and  I  give  you  your  choice — be  my  servant,  or 
be  my  breakfast ;  it  is  just  the  same  to  me.  I  give  you  time 
to  decide  till  I  have  smoked  out  my  pipe." 

The  poor  dog  did  not  take  so  long  to  consider.  "  It  is 
true,"  thought  he,  "  that  it  is  a  great  misfortune  to  live  in  a 
cave  with  a  griffin  of  so  unpleasant  a  countenance :  but,  prob- 
ably, if  I  serve  him  well  and  faithfully,  he'll  take  pity  on  me 
some  day,  and  let  me  go  back  to  earth,  and  prove  to  my  cousin 
what  a  rogue  the  fox  is  ;  and  as  to  the  rest,  though  I  would 
sell  my  life  as  dear  as  I  could,"it  is  impossible  to  fight  a  griffin 
with  a  mouth  of  so  monstrous  a  size."  In  short,  he  decided 
to  stay  with  the  griffin. 

"  Shake  a  paw  on  it,"  quoth  the  grim  smoker  ;  and  the  dog 
shook  paws. 

"  And  now,"  said  the  griffin,  "  I  will  tell  you  what  you  are  to 
do — look  here  " ;  and  moving  his  tail,  he  showed  the  dog  a 
great  heap  of  gold  and  silver,  in  a  hole  in  the  ground,  that  he 
had  covered  with  the  folds  of  his  tail  ;  and  also,  what  the  dog 
thought  more  valuable,  a  great  heap  of  bones  of  very  tempting 
appearance. 

"Now,"  said  the  griffin,  "during  the  day,  I  can  take  very 
good  care  of  these  myself ;  but  at  night  it  is  very  necessary 


gi  frfE    tlLGRlMs    OF    THE 

that  I  should  go  to  sleep  :  so  when  I  sleep,  you  must  watch 
t>vcr  them  instead  of  me." 

"  Very  well,"  said  the  dog.  "As  to  the  gold  and  silver,  I 
have  no  objection  ;  but  I  would  much  rather  that  you  would 
lock  up  the  bones,  for  I'm  often  hungry  of  a  night,  and — " 

"  Hold  your  tongue,"  said  the  griffin. 

"  But,  sir,"  said  the  dog,  after  a  short  silence,  "  surely  no- 
body ever  comes  into  so  retired  a  situation  !  Who  are  the 
thieves,  if  I  may  make  bold  to  ask  ?  " 

"  Know,"  answered  the  griffin,  "  that  there  are  a  great  many 
serpents  in  this  neighborhood  ;  they  are  always  trying  to  steal 
my  treasure  ;  and  if  they  catch  me  napping,  they,  not  con- 
tented with  theft,  would  do  their  best  to  sting  me  to  death. 
So  that  I  am  almost  worn  out  for  want  of  sleep." 

"  Ah  !  "  quoth  the  dog,  who  was  fond  of  a  good  night's  rest, 
"  I  don't  envy  you  your  treasure,  sir." 

At  night,  the  griffin,  who  had  a  great  deal  of  penetration, 
and  saw  that  he  might  depend  on  the  dog,  lay  down  to  sleep 
in  another  corner  of  the  cave;  and  the  dog,  shaking  himself 
well,  so  as  to  be  quite  awake,  took  watch  over  the  treasure. 
His  mouth  watered  exceedingly  at  the  bones,  and  he  could  not 
help  smelling  them  now  and  then  ;  but  he  said  to  himself  : 
"  A  bargain's  a  bargain,  and  since  I  have  promised  to  serve 
the  griffin,  I  must  serve  him  as  an  honest  dog  ought  to  serve.'' 

In  the  middle  of  the  night  he  saw  a  great  snake  creeping  in 
by  the  side  of  the  cave,  but  the  dog  set  up  so  loud  a  bark  that 
the  griffin  awoke,  and  the  snake  crept  away  as  fast  as  he  could. 
Then  the  griffin  was  very  much  pleased,  and  he  gave  the  dog 
one  of  the  bones  to  amuse  hknself  with  ;  and  every  night  the 
dog  watched  the  treasure,  and  acquitted  himself  so  well,  that 
not  a  snake,  at  last,  dared  to  make  its  appearance  ;  so  the 
griffin  enjoyed  an  excellent  night's  rest. 

The  dog  now  found  himself  much  more  comfortable  than  he 
expected.  The  griffin  regularly  gave  him  one  of  the  bones  for 
supper;  and,  pleased  with  his  fidelity,  made  himself  as  agree- 
able a  master  as  a  griffin  could  be.  Still,  however,  the  dog  was 
secretly  very  anxious  to  return  to  earth  ;  for  having  nothing  to 
do  during  the  day  but  to  doze  on  the  ground,  he  dreamed  per- 
petually of  his  cousin  the  cat's  charms  ;  and,  in  fancy,  he  gave 
the  rascal  Reynard. as  hearty  a  worry  as  a  fox  may  well  have  the 
honor  of  receiving  from  a  dog's  paws.  He  awoke  panting — 
alas  !  he  could  not  realizeiiis  dreams. 

One  night,  as  he  was  watching  as  usual  over  the  treasure,  he 
was  greatly  surprised  to  see-  a  beautiful  little  black  and  white 


THE   PILGRIMS   OF    THE   fcHlNE.  93 

dog  enter  the  cave  ;  and  it  came  fawning  to  our  honest  friend, 
wagging  its  tail  with  pleasure. 

"  Ah  !  little  one,"  said  our  dog,  whom,  to  distinguish,  I  will 
call  the  watch-dog,  "you  had  better  make  the  best  of  your 
way  back  again.  See,  there  is  a  great  griffin  asleep  in  the 
other  corner  of  the  cave,  and  if  he  wakes,  he  will  either  eat  you 
up  or  make  you  his  servant,  as  he  has  made  me." 

"  I  know  what  you  would  tell  me,"  says  the  little  dog  ;  "  and 
I  have  come  down  here  to  deliver  you.  The  stone  is  now 
gone  from  the  mouth  of  the  cave,  and  you  have  nothing  to  do 
but  to  go  back  with  me.  Come,  brother,  come." 

The  dog  was  very  much  excited  by  this  address.  "  Don't 
ask  me,  my  dear  little  friend,"  said  he  ;  "  you  must  be  aware 
that  I  should  be  too  happy  to  escape  out  of  this  cold  cave,  and 
roll  on  the  soft  turf  once  more  :  but  if  I  leave  my  master,  the 
griffin,  those  cursed  serpents,  who  are  always  on  the  watch, 
will  come  in  and  steal  his  treasure — pay,  perhaps,  sting  him  to 
death."  Then  the  little  dog  came  up  to  the  watch-dog,  and 
remonstrated  with  hi-m  greatly,  and  licked  him  caressingly  on 
both  sides  of  his  face  ;  and,  taking  him  by  the  ear,  endeavored 
to  draw  him  from  the  treasure  :  but  the  dog  would  not  stir  a 
step,  though  his  heart  sorely  pressed  him.  At  length  the  little 
dog,  rinding  it  all  in  vain,  said  :  "Well  then,  if  I  must  leave, 
good-by  ;  but  I  have  become  so  hungry  in  coming  down  all 
this  way  after  you,  that  I  wish  you  would  give  me  one  of  those 
bones  ;  they  smell  very  pleasantly,  and  one  out  of  so  many 
could  never  be  missed." 

"  Alas  !  "  said  the  watch-dog,  with  tears  in  his  eyes,  "  how 
unlucky  I  am  to  have  eat  up  the  bone  my  master  gave  me, 
otherwise  you  should  have  had  it  and  welcome.  But  I  can't 
give  you  one  of  these,  because  my  master  has  made  me  prom- 
ise to  watch  over  them  all,  and  I  have  given  him  my  paw  on 
it.  I  am  sure  a  dog  of  your  respectable  appearance  will  say 
nothing  farther  on  the  subject." 

Then  the  little  dog  answered  pettishly  :  "  Pooh,  what  non- 
sense you  talk  !  surely  a  great  griffin  can't  miss  a  little  bone, 
fit  for  me  ";  and  nestling  his  nose  under  the  watch-dog,  he 
tried  forthwith  to  bring  up  one  of  the  bones. 

On  this  the  watch-dog  grew  angry,  and,  though  with  much 
reluctance,  he  seized  the  little  dog  by  the  nape  of  the  neck  and 
threw  him  off,  but  without  hurting  him.  Suddenly  the  little  dog 
changed  into  a  monstrous  serpent,  bigger  even  than  the  griffin 
himself,  and  the  watch-dog  barked  with  all  his  might.  The 
griffin  rose  in  a  great  hurry,  and  the  serpent  sprang  upon  him 


94  THE   PILGRIMS  OF   THE   RHINE. 

ere  he  was  well  awake.  I  wish,  dearest  Nymphalin,  you  could 
have  seen  the  battle  between  the  griffin  and  the  serpent  ;  how 
they  coiled  and  twisted,  and  bit  and  darted  their  fiery  tongues 
at  each  other.  At  length,  the  serpent  got  uppermost,  and  was 
about  to  plunge  his  tongue  into  that  part  of  the  griffin  which 
is  unprotected  by  his  scales,  when  the  dog,  seizing  him  by  the 
tail,  bit  him  so  sharply,  that  he  could  not  help  turning  round 
to  kill  his  new  assailant,  and  the  griffin,  taking  advantage  of 
the  opportunity,  caught  the  serpent  by  the  throat  with  both 
claws,  and  fairly  strangled  him.  As  soon  as  the  griffin  had 
recovered  from  the  nervousness  of  the  conflict,  he  heaped  all 
manner  of  caresses  on  the  dog  for  saving  his  life.  The  dog 
told  him  the  whole  story,  and  the  griffin  then  explained,  that 
the  dead  snake  was  the  king  of  the  serpents,  who  had  the 
power  to  change  himself  into  any  shape  he  pleased.  "  Jf  he 
-had  tempted  you,"  said  he,  "  to  leave  the  treasure  but  for  one 
moment,  or  to  have  given-him  any  part  of  it,  ay,  but  a  single 
bone,  he  would  have  crushed  you  in  an  instant,  and  stung  me 
to  death  ere  I  could  have  waked  ;  but  none,  no,  not  the  most 
venomous  thing  in  creation,  has  power  to  hurt  the  honest !  " 

"  That  has  always  been  my  belief,"  answered  the  dog  ; 
"and  now,  sir,  you  had  better  go  to  sleep  again,  and  leave  the 
rest  to  me." 

"  Nay,"  answered  the  griffin.  "  I  have  no  longer  need  of  a 
servant ;  for  now  that  the  king  of  the  serpents  is  dead,  the  rest 
will  never  molest  me.  It  was  only  to  satisfy  his  avarice  that 
his  subjects  dared  to  brave  the  den  of  the  griffin." 

Upon  hearing  this  the  dog  was  exceedingly  delighted  ;  and 
raising  himself  on  his  hind  paws,  he  begged  the  griffin  most 
movingly  to  let  him  return  to  earth,  to  visit  his  mistress  the 
cat,  and  worry  his  rival  the  fox. 

"  You  do  not  serve  an  ungrateful  master,"  answered  the 
griffin.  "  You  shall  return,  and  I  will  teach  you  all  the  craft 
of  our  race,  which  is  much  craftier  than  the  race  of  that  petti- 
fogger the  fox,  so  that  you  may  be  able  to  cope  with  your 
rival." 

"  Ah,  excuse  me,"  said  the  dog  hastily,  "  I  am  equally 
obliged  to  you  :  but  I  fancy  honesty  is  a  match  for  cunning 
any  day ;  and  I  think  myself  a  great  deal  safer  in  being  a  dog 
of  honor  than  if  I  knew  all  the  tricks  in  the  world." 

"  Well,"  said  the  griffin,  a  little  piqued  at  the  dog's  blunt- 
ness,  "  do  as  you  please  ;  I  wish  you  all  possible  success." 

Then  the  griffin  opened  a  secret  door  in  the  side  of  the  cav- 
ern, arid  the  dog  saw  a  broad  path  that  led  at  once  into  the 


THE   PILGRIMS   OF   THE   RHINE.  95 

WOod.  He  thanked  the  griffin  with  all  his  heart,  and  ran  wag- 
ging his  tail  in  the  open  moonlight.  "  Ah,  ah  !  master  fox," 
said  he,  "  there's  no  trap  for  an  honest  dog  that  has  not  two 
doors  to  it,  cunning  as  you  think  yourself." 

With  that  he  curled  his  tail  gallantly  over  his  left  leg,  and 
set  off  on  a  long  trot  to  the  cat's  house.  When  he  was  within 
sight  of  it,  he  stopped  to  refresh  himself  by  a  pool  of  water, 
and  who  should  be  there  but  our  friend  the  magpie. 

"  And  what  do  you  want",  friend  ?  "  said  she,  rather  disdain- 
fully, for  the  dog  looked  somewhat  out-  of  case  after  his 
journey. 

"  I  am  going  to  see  my  cousin  the  cat,"  answered  he. 

"Your  cousin  !  marry  come  up,"  said  the  magpie  ;  "  don't 
you  know  she  is  going  to  be  married  to  Reynard  the  fox  ? 
f  his  is  not  a  time  for  her  to  receive  the  visits  of  a  brute  like 
you." 

These  words  put  the  dog  in  such  a  passion,  that  he  very 
nearly  bit  the  magpie  for  her  uncivil  mode  of  communicating 
such  bad  news.  However,  he  curbed  his  temper,  and,  without 
answering  her,  went  at  once  to  the  cat's  residence. 

The  cat  was  sitting  at  the  window,  and  no  sooner  did  the 
dog  see  her  than  he  fairly  lost  his  heart ;  never  had  he  seen 
so  charming  a  cat  before  :  he  advanced,  wagging  his  tail,  and 
with  his  most  insinuating  air  ;  when  the  cat,  getting  up, 
clapped  the  window  in  his  face — and  lo  !  Reynard  the  fox  ap- 
peared in  her  stead. 

"  Come  out,  thou  rascal  ! "  said  the  dog,  showing  his  teeth  : 
"  come  out,  I  challenge  thee  to  single  combat  ;  I  have  not  for- 
given thy  malice,  and  thou  seest  that  I  am  no  longer  shut  up 
in  the  cave,  and  unable  to  punish  thee  for  thy  wickedness." 

"  Go  home,  silly  one  !"  answered  the  fox,  sneering  ;  "  thou 
hast  no  business  here,  and  as  for  fighting  thee — bah  ! "  Then 
the  fox  left  the  window  and  disappeared.  But  the  dog,  thor- 
oughly enraged,  scratched  lustily  at  the  door,  and  made  such 
a  noise,  that  presently  the  cat  herself  came  to  the  window. 

"  How  now  !  "  said  she  angrily  ;  "  what  means  all  this 
rudeness  ?  Who  are  you,  and  what  do  you  want  at  my 
house  ?  " 

"  Oh,  my  dear  cousin,"  said  the  dog,  "  do  not  speak  so 
severely.  Know  that  I  have  come  here  on  purpose  to  pay  you 
a  visit  ;  and,  whatever  you  do,  let  me  beseech  you  not  to  listen 
to  that  villain  Reynard — you  have  no  conception  what  a  rogue 
he  is !  " 

"  What !  "  said  the  cat,  blushing ;  "  do  you  dare  to  abuse 


$6  THE    PILGRIMS   OF    THE   RHINE. 

your  betters  in  this  fashion  ?     I  see  you  have  a  design  on  me. 
Go,  this  instant,  or — " 

"Enough,  madam,"  said  the  dog  proudly;  "you  need  not 
speak  twice  to  me — farewell." 

And  he  turned  away  very  slowly,  and  went  under  a  tree, 
where  he  took  up  his  lodgings  for  the  night.  But  the  next 
morning  there  was  an  amazing  commotion  in  the  neighbor- 
hood ;  a  stranger,  of  a  very  different  style  of  travelling  from 
that  of  the  dog,  had  arrived  at  the'  dead  of  the  night,  and 
fixed  his  abode  in  a  large  cavern,  hollowed  out  of  a  steep  rock. 
The  noise  he  had  made  in  flying  through  the  air  was  so  great, 
that  it  had  awakened  every  bird  and  beast  in  the  parish  ;  and 
Reynard,  whose  bad  conscience  never  suffered  him  to  sleep 
very  soundly,  putting  his  head  out  of  the  window,  perceived, 
to  his  great  alarm,  that  the  stranger  was  nothing  less  than  a 
monstrous  griffin. 

Now  the  griffins  are  the  richest  beasts  in  the  world  ;  and 
that's  the  reason  they  keep  so  close  under  ground.  Whenever 
it  does  happen  that  they  pay  a  visit  above,  it  is  not  a  thing  to 
be  easily  forgotten. 

The  magpie  was  all  agitation — what  could  the  griffin  pos- 
sibly want  there  ?  She  resolved  to  take  a  peep  at  the  cavern, 
and  accordingly  she  hopped  timorously  up  the  rock,  and  pre- 
tended to  be  picking  up  sticks  for  her  nest. 

"Holla,  ma'am  !  "  cried  a  very  rough  voice,  and  she  saw  the 
griffin  putting  his  head  out  of  the  cavern.  "Holla!  you  are 
the  very  lady  I  want  to  see ;  you  know  all  the  people  about 
here — eh  ? " 

"  All  the  best  company,  your  lordship,  I  certainly  do," 
answered  the  magpie,  dropping  a  courtesy. 

Upon  this  the  griffin  walked  out ;  and  smoking  his  pipe 
leisurely  in  the  open  air,  in  order  to  set  the  pie  at  her  ease, 
continued  : 

"  Are  there  any  respectable  beasts  of  good  families  settled 
in  this  neighborhood  ?" 

"  Oh,  most  elegant  society,  I  assure  your  lordship,"  cried 
the  pie.  "  I  have  lived  here  myself  these  ten  years,  and 
the  great  heiress,  the  cat  yonder,  attracts  a  vast  number  of 
strangers." 

"  Humph — heiress,  indeed  !  much  you  know  about  heir- 
esses !  "  said  the  griffin.  "  There  is  only  one  heiress  in  the 
world,  and  that's  my  daughter." 

"  Bless  me  !  has  your  lordship  a  family  ?  I  beg  you  a 
thousand  pardons.  But  I  only  saw  your  lordship's  own  equi- 


THE    PILGRIMS   OF    THE    RHINE.  9) 

page  last  night,  and  did  not  know  you  brought  any  one  with 
you." 

"  My  daughter  went  first,  and  was  safely  lodged  before  I 
arrived.  She  did  not  disturb  you,  I  dare  say,  as  I  did  ;  for 
she  sails  along  like  a  swan  ;  but  I  have  the  gout  in  my  left 
claw,  and  that's  the  reason  I  puff  and  groan  so  in  taking  a 
journey." 

"  Shall  I  drop  in  upon  Miss  Grjffin,  and  see  how  she  is  after 
her  journey?"  said  the  pie,  advancing. 

"I  thank  you,  no.  I  don't  intend  her  to  be  seen  while  I 
stay  here — it  unsettles  her  ;  and  I'm  afraid  of  the  young 
beasts  running  away  with  her  if  they  once  heard  how  hand- 
some she  was :  she's  the  living  picture  of  me,  but  she's  mon- 
strous giddy  !  Not  that  I  should  care  much  if  she  did  go  off 
with  a  beast  of  degree,  were  I  not  obliged  to  pay  her  portion, 
which  is  prodigious  ;  and  I  don't  like  parting  with  money, 
ma'am,  when  I've  once  got  it.  Ho,  ho,  ho  ! " 

"  You  are  too  witty,  my  lord.  But  if  you  refused  your  con- 
sent ?"  said  the  pie,  anxious  to  know  the  whole  family  history 
of  so  grand  a  seigneur. 

"  I  should  have  to  pay  the  dowry  all  the  same.  It  was  left 
her  by  her  uncle  the  dragon.  But  don't  let  this  go  any 
farther." 

"  Your  lordship  may  depend  on  my  secrecy.  I  wish  your 
lordship  a  very  good-morning." 

Away  flew  the  pie,  and  she  did  not  stop  till  she  got  to  the 
cat's  house.  The  cat  and  the  fox  were  at  breakfast,  and  the 
fox  had  his  paw  on  his  heart.  "  Beautiful  scene  !  "  cried  the 
pie  ;  the  cat  colored,  and  bade  the  pie  take  a  seat. 

Then  off  went  the  pie's  tongue,  glib,  glib,  glib,  chatter, 
chatter,  chatter.  She  related  to  them  the  whole  story  of  the 
griffin  and  his  daughter,  and  a  great  deal  more  besides,  that 
the  griffin  had  never  told  her. 

The  cat  listened  attentively.  Another  young  heiress  in  the 
neighborhood  might  be  a  formidable  rival.  "  But  is  the 
griffiness  handsome?"  said  she. 

"  Handsome  !  "  cried  the  pie  ;  "  Oh  !  if  you  could  have  seen 
the  father  ! — such  a  mouth,  such  eyes,  such  a  complexion  ; 
and  he  declares  she's  the  living  picture  of  himself !  But  what 
do  you  say,  Mr.  Reynard  ?  You,  who  have  been  so  much  in 
the  world,  have,  perhaps,  seen  the  young  lady  ! " 

"  Why,  I  can't  say  I  have,"  answered  the  fox,  waking  from 
a  revery  ;  "  but  she  must  be  wonderfully  rich,  I  dare  say  that 
fool,  the  dog,  will  be  making  up  to  her," 


98  THE    PILGRIMS    OF    THE    RHINE. 

"  Ah  !  by  the  way,"  said  the  pie,  "  what  a  fuss  he  made  at 
your  door  yesterday  !  Why  would  you  not^admit  him,  my 
dear? " 

"  Oh  !  "  said  the  cat  demurely,  "  Mr.  Reynard  says  that  he 
is  a  dog  of  very  bad  character,  quite  a  fortune-hunter  ;  and 
hiding  the  most  dangerous  disposition  to  bite  under  an  ap- 
pearance of  good-nature.  I  hope  he  won't  be  quarrelsome 
with  you,  dear  Reynard  !  " 

"  With  me  ?  Oh,  the  poor  wretch,  no  ! — he  might  bluster  a 
little  ;  but  he  knows  that  if  I'm  once  angry  I'm  a  devil  at 
biting  ;  but  one  should  not  boast  of  oneself." 

In  the  evening  Reynard  felt  a  strange  desire  to  go  and  see 
the  griffin  smoking  his  pipe  ;  but  what  could  he  do  ?  There 
was  the  dog  under  the  opposite  tree  evidently  watching  for 
him,  and  Reynard  had  no  wish  to  prove  himself  that  devil  at 
biting  which  he  declared  he  was.  At  last  he  resolved  to  have 
recourse  to  stratagem  to  get  rid  of  the  dog. 

A  young  buck  of  a  rabbit,  a  sort  of  provincial  fop,  had 
looked  in  upon  his  cousin  the  cat,  to  pay  her  his  respects,  and 
Reynard,  taking  him  aside,  said  :  "  You  see  that  shabby-look- 
ing dog  under  the  tree?  He  has  behaved  very  ill  to  your 
cousin  the  cat,  and  you  certainly  ought  to  challenge  him — for- 
give my  boldness — nothing  but  respect  for  your  character 
induces  me  to  take  so  great  a  liberty;  you  know  I  would 
chastise  the  rascal  myself,  but  what  a  scandal  it  would  make  ! 
If  I  were  already  married  to  your  cousin,  it  would  be  a 
different  thing.  But  you  know  what  a  story  that  cursed  mag- 
pie would  hatch  out  of  it !  " 

The  rabbit  looked  very  foolish  :  he  assured  the  fox  that  he 
was  no  match  for  the  dog  ;  that  he  was  very  fond  of  his 
cousin,  to  be  sure  ;  but  he  saw  no  necessity  to  interfere  with 
her  domestic  affairs ;  and,  in  short,  he  tried  all  he  possibly 
could  to  get  out  of  the  scrape  :  but  the  fox  so  artfully  played 
on  his  vanity,  so  earnestly  assured  him  that  the  dog  was  the 
biggest  coward  in  the  world,  and  would  make  a  humble 
apology,  and  so  eloquently  represented  to  him  the  glory 
he  would  obtain  for  manifesting  so  much  spirit,  that  at 
length  the  rabbit  was  persuaded  to  go  out  and  deliver  the 
challenge. 

"  I'll  be  your  second,"  said  the  fox  ;  "and  the  great  field  on 
the  other  side  the  wood,  two  miles  hence,  shall  be  the  place  of 
battle  :  there  we  shall  be  out  of  observation.  You  go  first, 
I'll  follow  in  half  an  hour,  and  I  say — hark  ! — in  case  he  does 
accept  the  challenge,  and  you  feel  the  least  afraid,  I'll  be  in 


THE    PILGRIMS    OF    THE    RHINE.  99 

the  field,  and  take  it  off  your  paws  with  the  utmost  pleasure ; 
rely  on  met  my  dear  sir  !  " 

Away  went  the  rabbit.  The  dog  was  a  little  astonished  at 
the  temerity  of  the  poor  creature  ;  but  on  hearing  that  the  fox 
was  to  be  present,  willingly  consented  to  repair  to  the  place  of 
conflict.  This  readiness  the  rabbit  did  not  at  all  relish  ;  he. 
went  very  slowly  to  the  field,  and  seeing  no  fox  there,  his 
heart  misgave  him,  and  while  the  dog  was  putting  his  nose  to 
the  ground  to  try  if  he  could  track  the  coming  of  the  fox,  the 
rabbit  slipped  inta  a  burrow,  and  left  the  dog  to  walk  back 
again. 

Meanwhile  the  fox  was  already  at  the  rock ;  he  walked  very 
soft-footedly,  and  looked  about  with  extreme  caution,  for  he 
had  a  vague  notion  that  a  griffin-papa  would  not  be  very  civil 
to  foxes. 

Now  there  were  two  holes  in  the  rock — one  below,  one  above, 
an  upper  story  and  an  under;  and  while  the  fox  was  peering 
about,  he  saw  a  great  claw  from  the  upper  rock  beckoning 
to  him. 

"  Ah,  ah  !  "  said  the  fox,  "  that's  the  wanton  young  griffiness, 
I'll  swear." 

He  approached,  and  a  voice  said  : 

"  Charming  Mr.  Reynard  !  Do  you  not  think  you  could 
deliver  an  unfortunate  griffiness  from  a  barbarous  confinement 
in  this  rock  ?" 

"  Oh,  heavens  ! "  cried  the  fox  tenderly,  "  what  a  beautiful 
voice  !  And,  ah,  my  poor  heart,  what  a  lovely  claw  !  Is  it 
possible  that  I  hear  the  daughter  of  my  lord,  the  great  griffin  ?" 

"  Hush,  flatterer  !  not  so  loud,  if  you  please.  My  father  is 
taking  an  evening  stroll,  and  is  very  quick  of  hearing.  He  has 
tied  me  up  by  my  poor  wings  in  the  cavern,  for  he  is  mightily 
afraid  of  some  beast  running  away  with  me.  You  know  I  have 
all  my  fortune  settled  on  myself." 

"  Talk  not  of  fortune,"  said  the  fox  ;  "  but  how  can  I  deliver 
you  ?  Shall  I  enter  and  gnaw  the  cord  ? " 

"Alas  ! "  answered  the  griffiness,  "  it  is  an  immense  chain  I 
am  bound  with.  However,  you  may  come  in  and  talk  more  at 
your  ease." 

The  fox  peeped  cautiously  all'  round,  and  seeing  no  sign  of 
the  griffin,  he  entered  the  lower  cave  and  stole  upstairs  to  the 
upper  story  ;  but  as  he  went  on,  he  saw  immense  piles  of  jewels 
and  gold,  and  all  sorts  of  treasure,  so  that  the  old  griffin  might 
well  have  laughed  at  the  poor  cat  being  called  an  heiress.  The 
fox  was  greatly  pleased  at  such  indisputable  signs  of  wealth, 


100  THE    PILGRIMS    OF    THE    RHINE. 

and  he  entered  the  upper  cave,  resolved  to  be  transported  with 
the  charms  of  the  griffiness. 

There  was,  however,  a  great  chasm  between  the  landing- 
place  and  the  spot  where  the  young  lady  was  chained,  and  he 
found  it  impossible  to  pass  ;  the  cavern  was  very  dark,  but  he 
saw  enough  of  the  figure  of  the  griffiness  to  perceive,  in  spite 
of  her  petticoat,  that  she  was  the  image  of  her  father,  and  the 
most  hideous  heiress  that  the  earth  ever  saw ! 

However,  he  swallowed  his  disgust,  and  poured  forth  such  a 
heap  of  compliments  that  the  griffiness  appeared  entirely  won. 
He  implored  her  to  fly  with  him  the  first  moment  she  was  un- 
chained. 

"  That  is  impossible,"  said  she  ;  "  for  my  father  never  un- 
chains me  except  in  his  presence,  and  then  I  cannot  stir  out 
of  his  sight." 

"  The  wretch  !"  cried  Reynard,  "  what  is  to  be  done  ?" 

"  Why,  there  is  only  one  thing  I  know  of,"  answered  the 
griffiness,  "  which  is  this — I  always  make  his  soup  for  him, 
and  if  I  could  mix  something  in  it  that  would  put  him  fast  to 
sleep  before  he  had  time  to  chain  me  up  again,  I  might  slip 
clown  and  carry  off  all  the  treasure  below  on  my  back." 

"  Charming  !  "  exclaimed  Reynard  ;  "What  invention  !  What 
wit!  I  will  go  and  get  some  poppies  directly." 

"Alas!"  said  the  griffiness,  "poppies  have  no  effect  upon 
griffins.  The  only  thing  that  can  ever  put  my  father  fast  to  sleep 
is  a  nice  young  cat  boiled  up  in  his  soup ;  it  is  astonishing 
what  a  charm  that  has  upon  him  !  But  where  to  get  a  cat  ? — • 
it  must  be  a  maiden  cat  too  !  " 

Reynard  was  a  little  startled  at  so  singular  an  opiate. 
'•  But,"  thought  he,  "  griffins  are  not  like  the  rest  of  the  world, 
and  so.jich  an  heiress  is  not  to  be  won  by  ordinary  means." 

"  I  do  know  a  cat — a  maiden  cat,"  said  he,  after  a  short 
pause  ;  "but  I  feel  a  little  repugnance  at  the  thought  of  hav- 
ing her  boiled  in  the  griffin's  soup.  Would  not  a  dog  do  as 
well?"  • 

"  Ah,  base  thing  !  "  said  the  griffiness,  appearing  to  weep, 
"  you  are  in  love  with  the  cat,  I  see  it  ;  go  and  marry  her, 
poor  dwarf  that  she  is,  and  leave  me  to  .die  of  grief." 

IP  vain  the  fox  protested  that  he  did  not  care  a  straw  for  the 
cat  ;  nothing  could  now  appease  the  griffiness,  but  his  positive 
assurance  that,  come  what  would,  poor  puss  should  be  brought 
to  the  cave,  and  boiled  for  the  griffin's  soup. 

"  But  how  will  you  get  her  here?  "  said  the  griffiness. 

•'Ah,  leave  me  to  that,"  said  Reynard.     "  Only  put  a  basket 


THE   PILGRIMS  OF   THE   RHINE.  IO1 

out  of  the  window,  and  draw  it  up  by  a  cord ;  tbe,  moment  it 
arrives  at  the  window,  be  sure  to  clap  your  claw  on  the  cat  at 
once,  for  she  is  terribly  active." 

"  Tush  !  "  answered  the  heiress  ;  "a pretty  griffiness  I  should 
be  if  I  did  not  know  how  to  catch  a  cat  !  " 

"  But  this  must  be  when  your  father  is  out?  "  said  Reynard. 

"  Certainly  :  he  takes  a  stroll  every  evening  at  sunset." 

"  Let  it  be  to-morrow,  then,"  said  Reynard,  impatient  for  the 
treasure. 

This  being  arranged,  Reynard  thought  it  time  to  decamp. 
He  stole  down  the  stairs  again,  and  tried  to  filch  some  of  the 
treasure  by  the  way  :  but  it  was  too  heavy  for  him  to  carry, 
and  he  was  forced  to  acknowledge  to  himself  that  it  was  im- 
possible to  get  the  treasure  without  taking  the  griffiness  (whose 
back  seemed  prodigiously  strong)  into  the  bargain. 

He  returned  home  to  the  cat,  and  when  he  entered  her 
house,  and  saw  how  ordinary  everything  looked  after  the  jew- 
els in  the  griffin's  cave,  he  quite  wondered  how  he  had  ever 
thought  the  cat  had  the  least  pretensions  to  good  looks. 

However,  he  concealed  his  wicked  design,  and  his  mistress 
thought  he  had  never  appeared  so  amiable.  4 

"  Only  guess,"  said  he,  "  where  I  have  been  ? — to  our  new 
neighbor  the  griffin  ;  a  most  charming  person,  thoroughly 
affable,  and  quite  the  air  of  the  court.  As  for  that  silly  mag- 
pie, the  griffin  saw  her  character  at  once;  and  it  was  all  a 
hoax  about  his  daughter  :  he  has  no  daughter  at  all.  You 
know,  my  dear,  hoaxing  is  a  fashionable  amusement  among  the 
great.  He  says  he  has  heard  of  nothing  but  your  beauty,  and 
on  my  telling  him  we  are  going  to  be  married,  he  has  insisted 
upon  giving  a  great  ball  and  supper  in  honor  of  the  event.  In 
fact,  he  is  a  gallant  old  fellow  and  dying  to  see  you.  Of  course 
I  was  obliged  to  accept  the  invitation." 

"You  could  not  do  otherwise,"  said  the  unsuspecting  young 
creature,  who,  as  I  before  said,  was  very  susceptible  to  flattery. 

"  And  only  think  how  delicate  his  attentions  are,"  said  the 
fox.  "  As  hs  is  very  badly  lodged  for  a  beast  of  his  rank,  and 
his  treasure  takes  up  the  whole  of  the  ground  floor,  he  is 
forced  to  give  Ihe/efe  in  the  upper  story,  so  he  hangs  out  a 
basket  for  his  guests,  and  draws  them  up  with  his  own  claw. 
How  condescending  !  But  the  great  are  so  amiable  !  " 

The  cat,  brought  up  in  seclusion,  was  all  delight  at  the  idea 
of  seeing  such  high  life,  and  the  lovers  talked  of  nothing  else 
all  the  next  day — when  Reynard,  towards  evening,  putting  his 
head  out  of  the  window,  saw  his  old  friend  the  dog  lying  as 


103  THE    PILGRIMS   OF    THE    RHINE. 

usual  and  watching  him  very  grimly.  "  Ah,  that  cursed  creat- 
ure !  I  had  quite  forgotten  him  ;  what  is  to  be  done  now  ? 
He  would  make  no  bones  of  me  if  he  once  saw  me  set  foot  out 
of  doors." 

With  that,  the  fox  began  to  cast  in  his  head  how  he  should 
get  rid  of  his  rival,  and  at  length  he  resolved  on  a  very  notable 
project  :  he  desired  the  cat  to  set  out  first,  and  wait  for  him 
at  a  turn  in  the  road  a  little  way  off.  "  For,"  said  he,  "  if  we 
go  together  we  shall  certainly  be  insulted  by  the  dog  ;  and  he 
will  know  that,  in  the  presence  of  a  lady,  the  custom  of  a  beast 
of  my  fashion  will  not  suffer  me  to  avenge  the  affront.  But 
when  I  am  alone,  the  creature  is  such  a  coward  that  he  would 
not  dare  say  his  soul's  his  own  :  leave  the  door  open  and  I'll 
follow  immediately." 

The  cat's  mind  was  so  completely  poisoned  against  her 
cousin  that  she  implicitly  believed  this  account  of  his  character, 
and  accordingly,  with  many  recommendations  to  her  lover  not 
to  sully  his  dignity  by  getting  into  any  sort  of  quarrel  with  the 
dog,  she  set  off  first. 

The  dog  went  up  to  her  very  humbly,  and  begged  her  to 
allow  him  to  say  a  few  words  to  her  ;  but  she  received  him  so 
haughtily  that  his  spirit  was  up  ;  and  he  walked  back  to  the 
tree  more  than  ever  enraged  against  his  rival.  But  what  was 
his  joy  when  he  saw  that  the  cat  had  left  the  door  open  ! 
"  Now,  wretch,"  thought  he,  "  you  cannot  escape  me  !  "  So 
he  walked  briskly  in  at  the  back  door.  He  was  greatly  sur- 
prised to  find  Reynard  lying  down  in  the  straw,  panting  as  if 
his  heart  would  break,  and  rolling  his  eyes  in  the  pangs  of 
death. 

"  Ah,  friend,"  said  the  fox,  with  a  faltering  voice,  "  you  are 
avenged,  my  hour  is  come  ;  I  am  just  going  to  give  up  the 
ghost ;  put  your  paw  upon  mine,  and  say  you  forgive  me." 

Despite  his  anger,  the  generous  dog  could  not  set  tooth  on 
a  dying  foe. 

"  You  have  served  me  a  shabby  trick,"  said  he  ;  "  you  have 
left  me  to  starve  in  a  hole,  and  you  have  evidently  maligned 
me  with  my  cousin  :  certainly  I  meant  to  be  avenged  on  you  ; 
but  if  you  are  really  dying,  that  alters  the  affair." 

"  Oh,  oh  !  "  groaned  the  fox  very  bitterly  ;  "  I  am  past 
help ;  the  poor  cat  is  gone  for  Doctor  Ape,  but  he'll  never 
come  in  time.  What  a  thing  it  is  to  have  a  bad  conscience  on 
one's  death-bed  !  But,  wait  till  the  cat  returns,  and  I'll  do 
you  full  justice  with  her  before  I  die." 

The  good-natured  dog  was  much  moved  at  seeing  his  mortal 


THE    PILGRIMS   OF    THE    RHINE.  IOJ 

enemy  in  such  a  state,  and  endeavored  as  well  as  he  could  to 
console  him. 

"  Oh,  oh  !  "  said  the  fox  ;  "  I  am  so  parched  in  the  throat- — 
I  am  burning";  and  he  hung  his  tongue  out  of  his  mouth, 
and  rolled  his  eyes  more  fearfully  than  ever. 

"  Is  there  no  water  here  ?  "  said  the  dog,  looking  round. 

"  Alas,  no  ! — yet  stay — yes,  now  I  think  of  it,  there  is  some 
in  that  little  hole  in  the  wall ;  but  how  to  get  at  it  ! — it 
is  so  high  that  1  can't,  in  my  poor,  weak  state,  climb  up  to 
it  ;  and  I  dare  not  ask  such  a  favor  of  one  I  have  injured  so 
much." 

"  Don't  talk  of  it,"  said  the  dog  :  "but  the  hole's  very  small, 
I  could  not  put  my  nose  through  it." 

"  No  ;  but  if  you  just  climb  up  on  that  stone,  and  thrust 
your  paw  into  the  hole,  you  can  dip  it  into  the  water,  and  so 
cool  my  poor  parched  mouth.  Oh,  what  a  thing  it  is  to  have 
a  bad  conscience  !  " 

The  dog  sprang  upon  the  stone,  and,  getting  on  his  hind- 
legs,  thrust  his  front  paw  into  the  hole  ;  when  suddenly  Rey- 
nard pulled  a  string  that  he  had  concealed  under  the  straw, 
and  the  dog  found  his  paw  caught  tight  to  the  wall  in  a  run- 
ning noose. 

"Ah,  rascal !  "  said  he  turning  round  ;  but  the  fox  leaped 
up  gayly  from  the  straw,  and  fastening  the  string  with  his 
teeth  to  a  nail  in  the  other  end  of  the  wall,  walked  out,  crying, 
"  Good-by,  my  dear  friend  ;  have  a  care  how  you  believe  here- 
after in  sudden  conversions  ! "  So  he  left  the  dog  on  his 
hind-legs  to  take  care  of  the  house. 

Reynard  found  the  cat  waiting  for  him  where  he  had  ap- 
pointed, and  they  walked  lovingly  together  till  they  came  to 
the  cave.  It  was  now  dark,  and  they  saw  the  basket  waiting 
below  ;  the  fox  assisted  the  poor  cat  into  it.  "  There  is  only 
room  for  one,"  said  he,  "you  must  go  first  !  "  Up  rose  the 
basket ;  the  fox  heard  a  piteous  mew,  and  no  more. 

"So  much  for  the  griffin's  soup  !  "  thought  he. 

He  waited  patiently  for  some  time,  when  the  griffiness,  wav- 
ing her  claw  from  the  window,  said  cheerfully,  "  All's  right, 
my  dear  Reynard  ;  my  papa  has  finished  his  soup,  and  sleeps 
as  sound  as  a  rock  !  All  the  noise  in  the  world  would  not 
wake  him  now,  till  he  has  slept  off  the  boiled  cat — which 
won't  be  these  twelve  hours.  Come  and  assist  me  in  pack- 
ing up  the  treasure  ;  I  should  be  sorry  to  leave  a  single  dia- 
mond behind." 

"  So  should  I,"  quoth  the  fox.     "  Stay,  I'll  come  round  by 


IO4  Ttifc    PILGRIMS   OF    THE    RtilNE. 

the  lower  hole  :  why,  the  door's  shut !  Pray,  beautiful  griffin- 
ess,  open  it  to  thy  impatient  adorer." 

"  Alas,  my  father  has  hid  the  key  !  I  never  know  where  he 
places  it ;  you  must  come  up  by  the  basket  ;  see,  I  will  lower 
it  for  you." 

The  fox  was  a  little  loth  to  trust  himself  in  the  same  con- 
veyance that  had  taken  his  mistress  to  be  boiled  ;  but  the  most 
cautious  grow  rash  when  money's  to  be  gained,  and  avarice 
can  trap  even  a  fox.  So  he  put  himself  as  comfortably  as  he 
could  into  the  basket,  and  up  he  went  in  an  instant.  It  rested, 
however,  just  before  it  reached  the  window,  and  the  fox  felt, 
with  a  slight  shudder,^  the  claw  of  the  griffiness  stroking  his 
back. 

"  Oh,  what  a  beautiful  coat !  "  quoth  she  caressingly. 

"  You  are  too  kind,"  said  the  fox  ;  "  but  you  can  feel  it 
more  at  your  leisure  when  I  am  once  up.  Make  haste,  I  be- 
seech you." 

"  Oh,  what  a  beautiful  bushy  tail !  Never  did  I  feel  such  a 
tail  !  " 

"  It  is  entirely  at  your  service,  sweet  griffiness,"  said  the  fox  ; 
"  but  pray  let  me  in.  Why  lose  an  instant  ?  " 

"  No,  never  did  I  feel  such  a  tail  !  No  wonder  you  are  so 
successful  with  the  ladies." 

"  Ah,  beloved  griffiness,  my  tail  is  yours  to  eternity,  but  you 
pinch  it  a  little  too  hard." 

Scarcely  had  he  said  this,  when  down  dropped  the  basket, 
but  not  with  the  fox  in  it ;  he  found  himself  caught  by  the  tail, 
and  dangling  half-way  clown  the  rock,  by  the  help  of  the  very 
same  sort  of  pulley  wherewith  he  had  snared  the  dog.  I  leave 
you  to  guess  his  consternation  ;  he  yelped  out  as  loud  as  he 
could,  for  it  hurts  a  fox  exceedingly  to  be  hanged  by  his  tail 
with  his  head  downwards,  when  the  door  of  the  rock  opened, 
and  out  stalked  the  griffin  himself,  smoking  his  pipe,  with  a 
vast  crowd  of  all  the  fashionable  beasts  in  the  neighborhood. 

"  Oho,  brother,"  said  the  bear,  laughing  fit  to  kill  himself; 
"  who  ever  saw  a  fox  hanged  by  the  tail  before  ? " 

"  You'll  have  need  of  a  physician,"  quoth  Doctor  Ape. 

"  A  pretty  match,  indeed  ;  a  griffiness  for  such  a  creature  as 
you  !  "  said  the  goat,  strutting  by  him. 

The  fox  grinned  with  pain,  and  said  nothing.  But  that 
which  hurt  him  most  was  the  compassion  of  a  dull  fool  of  a 
donkey,  who  assured  him  with  great  gravity  that  he  saw  noth- 
ing at  all  to  laugh  at  in  his  situation  ! 

"  At  all  events,"  said  the  fox,  at  last,  "  cheated,  gulled,  be- 


THE    PILGRIMS   OF    THE    RHINE.  105 

trayed  as  I  am,  I  have  played  the  same  trick  to  the  dog.  Go, 
and  laugh  at  him,  gentlemen  ;  he  deserves  it  as  much  as  I  can, 
I  assure  you." 

"  Pardon  me,"  said  the  griffin,  taking  the  pipe  out  of  his 
mouth  ;  "  one  never  laughs  at  the  honest." 

"  And  see,"  said  the  bear,  "  here  he  is." 

And  indeed  the  dog  had,  after  much  effort,  gnawed  the 
string  in  two,  and  extricated  his  paw  ;  the  scent  of  the  fox  had 
enabled  him  to  track  his  footsteps,  and  here  he  arrived,  burn- 
ing for  vengeance  and  finding  himself  already  avenged. 

But  his  first  thought  was  for  his  dear  cousin.  "  Ah,  where 
is  she  ?  "  he  cried  movingly  ;  "  without  doubt  that  villain  Rey- 
nard has  served  her  some  scurvy  trick." 

"  I  fear  so  indeed,  my  old  friend,"  answered  the  griffin,  "  but 
don't  grieve  ;  after  all,  she  was  nothing  particular.  You  shall 
marry  my  daughter  the  griffiness,  and  succeed  to  all  the  treas- 
ure ;  ay,  and  all  the  bones  that  you  once  guarded  so  faith- 
fully."' 

"Talk  not  to  me,"  said  the  faithful  dog.  "  I  want  none'of 
your  treasure  ;  and,  though  I  don't  mean  to  be  rude,  your 
griffiness  may  go  to  the  devil.  I  will  run  over  the  world  but 
I  will  find  my  dear  cousin." 

"  See  her  then,"  said  the  griffin  ;  and  the  beautiful  cat,  more 
beautiful  than  ever,  rushed  out  of  the  cavern  and  threw  her- 
self into  the  dog's  paws. 

A  pleasant  scene  this  for  the  fox  !  He  had  skill  enough  in 
the  female  heart  to  know  that' it  may  excuse  many  little  infidel- 
ities, but  to  be  boiled  alive  for  a  griffin's  soup  ! — no,  the  offence 
was  inexpiable  ! 

"  You  understand  me,  Mr.  Reynard,"  said  the  griffin,  "  I 
have  no  daughter,  and  it  was  me  you  made  love  to.  Knowing 
what  sort  of  a  creature  a  magpie  is,  I  amused  myself  with 
hoaxing  her  —  the  fashionable  amusement  at  court,  you 
know." 

The  fox  made  a  mighty  struggle,  and  leaped  on  the  ground, 
leaving  his  ta'il  behind  him.  It  did  not  grow  again  in  a  hurry. 

"  See, "said  the  griffin,  as  the  beasts  all  laughed  at  the  figure 
Reynard  made  running  into  the  wood,  "the  dog  beats  the  fox, 
with  the  ladies,  after  all ;  and  cunning  as  he  is  in  everything 
else,  the  fox  is  the  last  creature  that  should  ever  think  of  mak- 
ing love  ! " 

"  Charming  !  "  cried  Nymphalin,  clasping  her  hands  ;  "  it 
is  just  the  sort  of  story  I  like." 

"  And  I  suppose,  sir,"  said  Nip  pertly,  "  that  the  dog  and 


106  THE    PILGRIMS    OF    THE    RHINE. 

the    cat    lived    very   happily  ever    afterwards  ?     Indeed    the 
nuptial  felicity  of  a  dog  and  cat  is  proverbial  !  " 

"  I  dare  say  they  lived  much  the  same  as  any  other  mar- 
ried couple,"  answered  the  prince. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

THE  TOMB  OF  A  FATHER  OF  MANY  CHILDREN. 

THE  feast  being  now  ended,  as  well  as  the  story,  the  fairies 
wound  their  way  homeward  by  a  different  path,  till  at  length  a 
red,  steady  light  glowed  through  the  long  basaltic  arches  upon 
them,  like  the  Demon  Hunters'  fires  in  the  Forest  of  Pines. 

The  prince  sobered  in  his  pace.  "  You  approach,"  said  he, 
in  a  grave  tone,  "  the  greatest  of  our  temples  ;  you  will  witness 
the  tomb  of  a  mighty  founder  of  our  race  !  "  An  awe  crept  over 
the  queen,  in  spite  of  herself.  Tracking  the  fires  in  silence, 
they  came  to  a  vast  space,  in  the  midst  of  which  was  a  lone 
gray  block  of  stone,  such  as  the  traveller  finds  amidst  the 
dread  silence  of  Egyptian  Thebes. 

And  on  this  stone  lay  the  gigantic  figure  of  a  man,  dead, 
but  not  deathlike,  for  invisible  spells  had  preserved  the  flesh 
and  the  long  hair  for  untold  ages  ;  and  beside  him  lay  a  rude 
instrument  of  music,  and  at  his  feet  was  a  sword  and  a  hunter's 
spear  ;  and  above,  the  rock  wound,  hollowed  and  roofless,  to 
the  upper  air,  and  daylight  came  through,  sickened  and  pale, 
beneath  red  fires  that  burnt  everlastingly  around  him,  on  such 
simple  altars  as  belong  to  a  savage  race.  But  the  place  was 
not  solitary,  for  many  motionless,  but  not  lifeless,  shapes  sat 
on  large  blocks  of  stone  beside  the  tomb.  There  was  the  wiz- 
ard, wrapt  in  his  long  black  mantle,  and  his  face  covered  with 
his  hands  ;  there  was  the  uncouth  and  deformed  dwarf,  gib- 
bering to  himself ;  there  sat  the  household  elf;  there  glowered 
from  a  gloomy  rent  in  the  wall,  with  glittering  eyes  and  shining 
scale,  the  enormous  dragon  of  the  North.  An  aged  crone  in 
rags,  leaning  on  a  staff,  and  gazing  malignantly  on  the  visitors, 
with  bleared  but  fiery  eyes,  stood  opposite  the  tomb  of  the 
gigantic  dead.  And  now  the  fairies  themselves  completed  the 
group  !  But  all  was  dumb  and  unutterably  silent  ;  the  silence 
that  floats  over  some  antique  city  of  the  desert,  when,  for  the 
first  time  for  a  hundred  centuries,  a  living  foot  enters  its  deso- 
late remains  ;  the  silence  that  belongs  to  the  dust  of  eld,  deep, 
solemn,  palpable,  and  sinking  into  the  heart  with  a  leaden  and 
death-like  weight.  Even  the  English  fairy  spoke  not ;  she 


THE    PILGRIMS   OF    THE    RHINE.  107 

held  her  breath,  and  gazing  on  the  tomb,  she  saw,  in  rude,  vast 
characters, 

THE    TEUTON. 

"  We  are  all  that  remain  of  his  religion  !  "  said  the  prince, 
as  they  turned  from  the  dread  temple. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 
THE  FAIRY'S  CAVE,  AND  THE  FAIRY'S  WISH. 

IT  was  evening  ;  and  the  fairies  were  dancing  beneath  the 
twilight  star. 

"  And  why  art  thou  sad, .my  violet  ?  "  said  the  prince,  "  for 
thine  eyes  seek  the  ground  !  " 

"  Now  that  I  have  found  thee,"  answered  the  queen,  "  and 
now  that  I  feel  what  happy  love  is  to  a  fairy,  I  sigh  over  that 
love  which  I  have  lately  witnessed  among  mortals,  but  the  bud 
of  whose  happiness  already  conceals  the  worm.  For  well  didst 
thou  say,  my  prince,  that  we  are  linked  with  a  mysterious 
affinity  to  mankind,  and  whatever  is  pure  and  gentle  amongst 
them  speaks  at  once  to  our  sympathy,  and  commands  our 
vigils." 

"  And  most  of  all,"  said  the  German  fairy,  "  are  they  who 
love  under  our  watch  ;  for  love  is  the  golden  chain  that  binds 
all  in  the  universe  :  love  lights  up  alike  the  star  and  the  glow- 
worm ;  and  wherever  there  is  love  in  men's  lot,  lies  the  secret 
affinity  with  men,  and  with  things  divine." 

"  But  with  the  human  race,"  said  Nymphalin,  "  there  is  no 
love  that  outlasts  the  hour,  for  either  death  ends,  or  custom 
alters  :  when  the  blossom  comes  to  fruit,  it  is  plucked,  and 
seen  no  more ;  and  therefore,  when  I  behold  true  love  sen- 
tenced to  an  early  grave,  I  comfort  myself  that  I  shall  not  at 
least  behold  the  beauty  dimmed,  and  the  softness  of  the  heart 
hardened  into  stone.  Yet,  my  prince,  while  still  the  pulse  can 
beat,  and  the  warm  blood  flow,  in  that  beautiful  form,  which  I 
have  watched  over  of  late,  let  me  not  desert  her  ;  still  let  my 
influence  keep  the  sky  fair,  and  the  breezes  pure ;  still  let  me 
drive  the  vapor  from  the  moon,  and  the  clouds  from  the  faces 
of  the  stars  ;  still  let  me  fill  her  dreams  with  tender  and  bril- 
liant images,  and  glass  in  the  mirror  of  sleep,  the  happiest 
visions  of  fairy  land  ;  still  let  me  pour  over  her  eyes  that 
magic,  which  suffers  them  to  see  no  fault  in  one  in  whom  she 
has  garnered  up  her  soul !  And  as  death  comes  slowly  on, -still 


Io8  THE    PILGRIMS    OF    THE    RHINE. 

let  me  rob  the  spectre  of  its  terror,  and  the  grave  of  its  sting  ; 
so  that,  all  gently  and  unconscious  to  herself,  life  may  guide 
into  the  Great  Ocean  where  the  shadows  lie  ;  and  the  spirit 
without  guile,  may  be  severed  from  its  mansion  without  pain  !  " 
The  wish  of  the  fairy  was  fulfilled. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

THE  BANKS  OF  THE  RHINE. — FROM  THE  DRACHENFELS  TO 
BROHL  :  AN  INCIDENT  THAT  SUFFICES  IN  THIS  TALE  FOR 
AN  EPOCH. 

FROM  the  Drachenfels  commences  the  true  glory  of  the 
Rhine  ;  and,  once  more,  Gertrude's  eyes  conquered  the  lan- 
guor that  crept  gradually  over  them,  as  she  gazed  on  the  banks 
around. 

Fair  blew  the  breeze,  and  freshly  curled  the  waters ;  and 
Gertrude  did  not  feel  the  vulture  that  had  fixed  its  talons 
within  her  breast.  The  Rhine  widens,  like  a  broad  lake,  be- 
tween the  Drachenfels  and  Unkel ;  villages  are  scattered  over 
the  extended  plain  on  the  left  ;  on  the  right  is  the  Isle  of  Werth 
and  the  houses  of  Oberwinter ;  the  hills  are  covered  With  vines  ; 
and  still  Gertrude  turned  back  with  a  lingering  gaze  to  the 
lofty  crest  of  the  Seven  Hills. 

On,  on,  and  the  spires  of  Unkel  rose  above  a  curve  in  the 
banks,  and  on  the  opposite  shore  stretched  those  wondrous 
basaltic  columns  which  extend  to  the  middle  of  the  river,  and 
when  the  Rhine  runs  low,  you  may  see  them  like  an  engulfed 
city  beneath  the  waves.  You  then  view  the  ruins  of  Okken- 
fels,  and  hear  the  voice  of  the  pastoral  Gasbach  pouring  its 
waters  into  the  Rhine.  From  amidst  the  clefts  of  the  rocks 
the  vine  peeps  luxuriantly  forth,  and  gives  a  richness  and 
coloring  to  what  Nature,  left  to  herself,  intended  for  the  stern. 

"  But  turn  your  eye  backward  to  the  right,"  said  Trevylyan  ; 
"  those  banks  were  formerly  the  special  haunt  of  the  bold  rob- 
bers of  the  Rhine,  and  from  amidst  the  entangled  brakes  that 
then  covered  the  ragged  cliffs,  they  rushed  upon  their  prey. 
In  the  gloomy  canvas  of  those  feudal  days  what  vigorous  and 
mighty  images  were  crowded  !  A  robber's  life  amidst  these 
mountains,  and  beside  this  mountain  stream,  must  have  been 
the  very  poetry  of  the  spot  carried  into  action." 

They  rested  at  Brohl,  a  small  town  between  two  mountains. 
On  the  summit  of  one  you  see  the  gray  remains  of  Rheinech. 
There  is  something  weird  and  preternatural  about  the  aspect 


THE    PILGRIMS   OF    THE    RHINE.  109 

of  this  place ;  its  soil  betrays  signs  that,  in  the  former  ages 
(from  which  even  tradition  is  fast  fading  away),  some  volcano 
here  exhausted  its  fires.  The  stratum  of  the  earth  is  black 
and  pitchy,  and  the  springs  beneath  it  are  of  a  dark  and 
graveolent  water.  Here  the  stream  of  the  Brohlbach  falls  into 
the  Rhine,  and  in  a  valley  rich  with  oak  and  pine,  and  full  of 
caverns,  which  are  not  without  their  traditionary  inmates, 
stands  the  castle  of  Schweppenbourg,  which  our  party  failed 
not  to  visit. 

Gertrude  felt  fatigued  on  their  return,  and  Trevylyan  sat  by 
her  in  the  little  inn,  while  Vane  went  forth,  with  the  curiosity 
of  science,  to  examine  the  strata  of  the  soil. 

They  conversed  in  the  frankness  of  their  plighted  troth  upon 
those  topics  which  are  only  for  lovers  :  upon  the  bright  chap- 
ter in  the  history  of  their  love  ;  their  first  meeting  ;  their 
first  impressions  ;  the  little  incidents  in  their  present  journey — 
incidents  noticed  by  themselves  alone  ;  that  life  within  life 
which  two  persons  know  together — which  one  knows  not 
without  the  other — which  ceases  to  both  the  instant  they  are 
divided. 

"  I  know  not  what  the  love  of  others  may  be,"  said  Gertrude, 
"but  ours  seems  different  from  all  of  which  I  have  read. 
Books  tell  us  of  jealousies  and  misconstructions,  and  the 
necessity  of  an  absence,  the  sweetness  of  a  quarrel ;  but  we, 
dearest  Albert,  have  had  no  experience  of  these  passages  in 
love.  We  have  never  misunderstood  each  other  ;  we  have  no 
reconciliation  to  look  back  to.  When  was  there  ever  occasion 
for  me  to  ask  forgiveness  from  you  ?  Our  love  is  made  up  only 
of  one  memory — unceasing  kindness !  A  harsh  word,  a 
wronging  thought,  never  broke  in  upon  the  happiness  we  have 
felt  and  feel." 

"  Dearest  Gertrude,"  said  Trevylyan,  "  that  character  of  our 
love  is  caught  from  you  ;  you,  the  soft,  the  gentle,  have  been 
its  pervading  genius  ;  and  the  well  has  been  smooth  and  pure, 
for  you  were  the  spirit  that  lived  within  its  depths." 

And  to  such  talk  succeeded  silence  still  more  sweet — the 
silence  of  the  hushed  and  overflowing  heart.  The  last  voices 
of  the  birds,  the  sun  slowly  sinking  in  the  west,  the  fragrance 
of  descending  dews — filled  them  with  that  deep  and  mysterious 
sympathy  which  exists  between  Love  and  Nature. 

It  was  after  such  a  silence — a  long  silence,  that  seemed  but 
as  a  moment — that  Trevylyan  spoke,  but  Gertrude  answered 
not,  and  yearning  once  more  for  her  sweet  voice,  he  turned 
and  saw  that  she  had  fainted  away. 


IlO  THE    PILGRIMS   OF    THE    RHINE. 

This  was  the  first  indication  of  the  point  to  which  her  in- 
creasing debility  had  arrived.  Trevylyan's  heart  stood  still, 
and  then  beat  violently ;  a  thousand  fears  crept  over  him  ;  he 
clasped  her  in  his  arms,  and  bore  her  to  the  open  window. 
The  setting  sun  fell  upon  her  countenance,  from  which  the 
play  of  the  young  heart  and  warm  fancy  had  fled,  and  in  its 
deep  and  still  repose  the  ravages  of  disease  were  darkly  visible. 
What  were  then  his  emotions  !  His  heart  was  like  stone  ;  but 
he  felt  a  rush  as  of  a  torrent  to  his  temples  :  his  eyes  grew 
dizzy  ;  he  was  stunned  by  the  greatness  of  his  despair.  For 
the  last  week  he  had  taken  hope  for  his  companion  ;  Gertrude 
had  seemed  so  much  stronger,  for  her  happiness  had  given  her 
a  false  support  ;  and  though  there  had  been  moments  when, 
watching  the  bright  hectic  come  and  go,  and  her  step  linger, 
and  the  breath  heave  short,  he  had  felt  the  hope  suddenly 
cease,  yet  never  had  he  known  till  now  that  fulness  of  anguish, 
that  dread  certainty  of  the  worst,  which  the  calm,  fair  face 
before  him  struck  into  his  soul  :  and  mixed  with  this  agony  as 
he  gazed  was  all  the  passion  of  the  most  ardent  love.  For 
there  she  lay  in  his  arms,  the  gentle  breath  rising  from  lips 
where  the  rose  yet  lingered,  and  the  long,  rich  hair,  soft  and 
silken  as  an  infant's,  stealing  from  its  confinement  :  everything 
that  belonged  to  Gertrude's  beauty  was  so  inexpressively  soft, 
and  pure,  and  youthful  !  Scarcely  seventeen,  she  seemed 
much  younger  than  she  was  ;  her  figure  had  sunken  from  its 
roundness,  but  still  how  light,  how  lovely  were  its  wrecks  ! 
The  neck  whiter  than  snow,  the  fair,  small  hand  !  Her  weight 
was  scarcely  felt  in  the  arms  of  her  lover  ;  and  he — what  a 
contrast ! — was  in  all  the  pride  and  flower  of  glorious  man- 
hood !  His  was  the  lofty  brow,  the  wreathing  hair,  the 
haughty  eye,  the  elastic  form  ;  and  upon  this  frail,  perishable 
thing  had  he  fixed  all  his  heart,  all  the  hopes  of  his  youth, 
the  pride  of  his  manhood,  his  schemes,  his  energies,  his 
ambition ! 

"  Oh,  Gertrude  !  "  cried  he,  "  is  it — is  it  thus — is  there 
indeed  no  hope  ?  " 

And  Gertrude  now  slowly  recovering,  and  opening  her  eyes 
upon  Trevylyan's  face,  the  revulsion  was  so  great,  his  emo- 
tions so  overpowering,  that,  clasping  her  to  his  bosom,  as  if 
even  death  should  not  tear  her  away  from  him,  he  wept  over 
her  in  an  agony  of  tears ;  not  those  tears  that  relieve  the 
heart,  but  the  fiery  rain  of  the  eternal  storm,  a  sign  of  the 
fierce  tumult  that  shook  the  very  core  of  his  existence,  not  a 
relief. 


THE    PILGRIMS   OF    THE    RHINE.  Ill 

Awakened  to  herself,  Gertrude,  in  amazement  and  alarm, 
threw  her  arms  around  his  neck,  and,  looking  wistfully  into 
his  face,  implored  him  to  speak  to  her. 

"  Was  it  my  illness,  love  ?"  said  she ;  and  the  music  of  her 
voice  only  conveyed  to  him  the  thought  of  how  soon  it  would 
be  dumb  to  him  forever.  "  Nay,"  she  continued  winningly, 
"  it  was  but  the  heat  of  the  day  ;  I  am  better  now — I  am  well ; 
there  is  no  cause  to  be  alarmed  for  me  ":  and,  with  all  the 
innocent  fondness  of  extreme  youth,  she  kissed  the  burning 
tears  from  his  eyes. 

There  was  a  playfulness,  an  innocence  in  this  poor  girl,  so 
unconscious  as  yet  of  her  destiny,  which  rendered  her  fate 
doubly  touching  ;  and  which  to  the  stern  Trevylyan,  hackneyed 
by  the  world,  made  her  irresistible  charm  ;  and  now  as  she 
put  aside  her  hair,  and  looked  up  gratefully,  yet  pleadingly, 
into  his  face,  he  could  scarce  refrain  from  pouring  out  to  her 
the  confession  of  his  anguish  and  despair.  But  the  necessity  of 
self-control,  the  necessity  of  concealing  from  her  a  knowledge 
which  might  only,  by  impressing  her  imagination,  expedite  her 
doom,  while  it  would  embitter  to  her  mind  the  unconscious 
enjoyment  of  the  hour,  nerved  and  manned  him.  He  checked, 
by  those  violent  efforts  which  only  men  can  make,  the  evidence 
of  his  emotions  ;  and  endeavored,  by  a  rapid  torrent  of  words, 
to  divert  her  attention  from  a  weakness,  the  causes  of  which 
he  could  not  explain.  Fortunately  Vane  soon  returned,  and 
Trevylyan,  consigning  Gertrude  to  his  care,  hastily  left  the 
room. 

Gertrude  sunk  into  a  revery. 

"  Ah,  dear  father  !  "  said  she  suddenly,  and  after  a  pause, 
"  if  I  indeed  were  worse  than  I  have  thought  myself  of  late — if 
I  were  to  die  now,  what  would  Trevylyan  feel  ?  Pray  God,  I 
may  live  for  his  sake  !  " 

"  My  child,  do  not  talk  thus  :  you  are  better,  much  better 
than  you  were.  Ere  the  autumn  ends,  Trevylyan's  happiness 
will  be  your  lawful  care.  Do  not  think  so  despondingly  of 
yourself." 

"  I  thought  not  of  myself,"  sighed  Gertrude,  "  but  of  him  !  " 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

GERTRUDE. THE  EXCURSION  TO  HAMMERSTEIN. — THOUGHTS. 

THE  next  day  they  visited  the  environs  of  Brohl.    Gertrude 
was  unusually  silent  ;  for  her  temper,  usually  sunny  and  en- 


112  THE   PILGRIMS   OF    THE    RHINE. 

thusiastic,  was  accustomed  to  light  up  everything  she  saw. 
Ah,  once  how  bounding  was  that  step  !  How  undulating  the 
young  graces  of  that  form  !  How  playfully  once  danced  the 
ringlets  on  that  laughing  cheek  !  But  she  clung  to  Trevylyan's 
proud  form  with  a  yet  more  endearing  tenderness  than  was  her 
wont,  and  hung  yet  more  eagerly  on  his  words ;  her  hand 
sought  his,  and  she  often  pressed  it  to  her  lips,  and  sighed  as 
she  did  so.  Something  that  she  would  not  tell  seemed  passing 
within  her,  and  sobered  her  playful  mood.  But  there  was  this 
noticeable  in  Gertrude  :  whatever  took  away  from  her  gayety, 
increased  her  tenderness.  The  infirmities  of  her  frame  never 
touched  her  temper.  She  was  kind,  gentle,  loving  to  the  last. 

They  had  crossed  to  the  opposite  banks,  to  visit  the  Castle 
of  Hammerstein.  The  evening  was  transparently  serene  and 
clear  ;  and  the  warmth  of  the  sun  yet  lingered  upon  the  air, 
even  though  the  twilight  had  passed  and  the  moon  risen,  as 
their  boat  returned  by  a  lengthened  passage  to  the  village. 
Broad  and  straight  flows  the  Rhine  in  this  part  of  its  career. 
On  one  side  lay  the  wooded  village  of  Namecly,  the  hamlet  of 
Fornech,  backed  by  the  blue  rock  of  Kruezborner  Ley,  the 
mountains  that  shield  the  mysterious  Brohl  :  and,  on  the  op- 
posite shore,  they  saw  the  mighty  rock  of  Hammerstein,  with 
the  green  and  livid  ruins  sleeping  in  the  melancholy  moonlight. 
Two  towers  -rose  haughtily  above  the  more  dismantled  wrecks. 
How  changed  since  the  alternate  banners  of  the  Spaniard  and 
the  Swede  waved  from  their  ramparts,  in  that  great  war  in 
which  the  gorgeous  Wallenstein  won  his  laurels  !  And  in  its 
mighty  calm  flowed  on  the  ancestral  Rhine  ;  the  vessel  re- 
flected on  its  smooth  expanse,  and  above,  girded  by  thin  and 
shadowy  clouds,  the  moon  cast  her  shadows  upon  rocks  cov- 
ered with  verdure,  and  brought  into  a  dim  light  the  twin  spires 
of  Andernach,  tranquil  in  the  distance. 

"  How  beautiful  is  this  hour  !  "  said  Gertrude,  with  a  low 
voice:  "surely  we  do  not  live  enough  in  the  night;  one-half 
the  beauty  of  the  world  is  slept  away.  What  in  the  day  can 
equal  the  holy  calm,  the  loveliness,  and  the  stillness  which  the 
moon  now  casts  over  the  earth?  These,"  she  continued,  press- 
ing Trevylyan's  hand,  "  are  hours  to  remember  ;  and  you — will 
you  ever  forget  them  ? " 

Something  there  is  in  recollections  of  such  times  and  scenes 
that  seem  not  to  belong  to  real  life,  but  are  rather  an  episode  in 
its  history  ;  they  are  like  some  wandering  into  a  more  ideal 
world  ;  they  refuse  to  blend  with  our  ruder  associations  ;  they 
live  in  us,  apart  and  alone,  to  be  treasured  ever,  but  not  lightly 


THE    PILGRIMS   OF    THE    RHINE.  113 

to  be  recalled.  There  are  none  living  to  whom  we  can  con- 
fide them — who  can  sympathize  with  what  then  we  felt  ?  It  is 
this  that  makes  poetry,  and  that  page  which  we  create  as  a 
confidant  to  ourselves  necessary  to  the  thoughts  that  weigh 
upon  the  breast:  We  write,  for  our  writing  is  our  friend,  the 
inanimate  paper  is  our  confessional ;  we  pour  forth  on  it  the 
thoughts  that  we  could  tell  to  no  private  ear,  and  are  relieved, 
are  consoled.  And,  if  genius  has  one  prerogative  dearer  than 
the  rest,  it  is  that  which  enables  it  to  do  honor  to  the  dead  ; 
to  revive  the  beauty,  the  virtue  that  are  no  more  ;  to  wreathe 
chaplets  that  outlive  the  day  round  the  urn  which  were  else 
forgotten  by  the  world  ! 

When  the  poet  mourns,  in  his  immortal  verse,  for  the  dead, 
tell  me  not  that  fame  is  in  his  mind  !  It  is  filled  by  thoughts, 
by  emotions  that  shut  out  the  living.  -He  is  breathing  to  his 
genius — to  that  sole  and  constant  friend,  which  has  grown  up 
with  him  from  his  cradle — the  sorrows  too  delicate  for  human 
sympathy  ;  and  when  afterwards  he  consigns  the  confession  to 
the  crowd,  it  is  indeed  from  the  hope  of  honor — honor  not  for 
himself,  but  for  the  being  that  is  no  more. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

LETTER  FROM  TREVYLYAN  TO  . 

"  COBLENTZ. 

"  I  AM  obliged  to  you,  my  dear  friend,  for  your  letter  ;  which, 
indeed,  I  have  not,  in  the  course  of  our  rapid  journey,  had 
the  leisure,  perhaps  the  heart,  to  answer  before.  But  we  are 
staying  in  this  town  for  some  days,  and  I  write  now  in  the 
early  morning,  ere  any  one  else  in  our  hotel  is  awake.  Do  not 
tell  me  of  adventure,  of  politics,  of  intrigues  ;  my  nature  is 
altered.  I  threw  down  your  letter,  animated  and  brilliant  as 
it  was,  with  a  sick  and  revolted  heart.  But  I  am  now  in  some- 
what less  dejected  spirits.  Gertrude  is  better — yes,  really 
better  ;  there  is  a  physician  here  who  gives  me  hope  ;  my  care 
is  perpetually  to  amuse,  and  never  to  fatigue  her — never  to 
permit  her  thoughts  to  rest  upon  herself.  For  I  have  imagined 
that  illness  cannot,  at  least  in  the  unexhausted  vigor  of  our 
years,  fasten  upon  us  irremediably,  unless  we  feed  it  with  our 
own  belief  in  its  existence.  You  see  men  of  the  most  delicate 
frames  engaged  in  active  and  professional  pursuits,  who  liter- 
ally have  no  time  for  illness.  Let  them  become  idle  ;  let  them 
take  care  of  themselves  ;  let  them  think  of  their  health — and 


114  TttE   PILGRIMS  OF   THE   RHINE. 

they  die  !  The  rust  rots  the  steel  which  use  preserves  ;  and, 
thank  Heaven,  although  Gertrude,  once  during  our  voyage, 
seemed  roused,  by  an  inexcusable  imprudence  of  emotion  on 
my  part,  into  some  suspicion  of  her  state,  yet  it  passed  away  ; 
for  she  thinks  rarely  of  herself — I  am  ever  in  her  thoughts  and 
seldom  from  her  side,  and  you  know,  too,  the  sanguine  and 
credulous  nature  of  her  disease.  But,  indeed,  I  now  hope 
more  than  I  have  done  since  I  knew  her. 

"  When,  after  an  excited  and  adventurous  life  which  had 
comprised  so  many  changes  in  so  few  years,  I  found  myself  at 
rest  in  the  bosom  of  a  retired  and  remote  part  of  the  country, 
and  Gertrude  and  her  father  were  my  only  neighbors,  I  was  in 
that  state  of  mind  in  which  the  passions,  recruited  by  solitude, 
are  accessible  to  the  purer  and  more  divine  emotions.  I  was 
struck  by  Gertrude's  beauty  ;  I  was  charmed  by  her  simplicity. 
Worn  in  the  usages  and  fashions  of  the  world,  the  inexperience, 
the  trustfulness,  the  exceeding  youth  of  her  mind,  charmed 
and  touched  me  ;  but  when  I  saw  the  stamp  of  our  national 
disease  in  her  bright  eye  and  transparent  cheek,  I  felt  my  love 
chilled  while  my  interest  was  increased.  I  fancied  myself  safe, 
and  I  went  daily  into  the  danger  ;  I  imagined  so  pure  a  light 
could  not  burn,  and  I  was  consumed.  Not  till  my  anxiety 
grew  into  pain,  my  interest  into  tenor,  did  I  know  the  secret 
of  my  own  heart  ;  and  at  the  moment  that  I  discovered  this 
secret,  I  discovered  also  that  Gertrude  loved  me!  What  a 
destiny  was  mine  !  What  happiness,  yet  what  misery  !  Ger- 
trude was  my  own — but  for  what  period  ?  I  might  touch  that 
soft  hand,  I  might  listen  to  the  tenderest  confession  from  that 
silver  voice,  but  all  the  while  my  heart  spoke  of  passion,  my 
reason  whispered  of  death.  You  know  that  I  am  considered 
of  a  cold  and  almost  callous  nature  ;  that  I  am  not  easHy 
moved  into  affection,  but  my  very  pride  bowed  me  here  into 
weakness.  There  was  so  soft  a  demand  upon  my  protection, 
so  constant  an  appeal  to  my  anxiety.  You  know  that  my 
father's  quick  temper  burns  within  me  ;  that  I  am  hot,  and 
stern,  and  exacting  ;  but  one  hasty  word,  one  thought  of  my. 
self,  here  were  inexcusable.  So  brief  a  time  might  be  left  fot 
earthly  happiness — could^  I  embitter  one  moment?  All  thai 
feeling  of  uncertainty  which  should  in  prudence  have  prevented 
my  love  increased  it  almost  to  a  preternatural  excess.  That 
which  it  is  said  mothers  feel  for  an  only  child  in  sickness,  I 
feel  for  Gertrude.  My  existence  is  not  ! — I  exist  in  her  ! 

"  Her  illness  increased  upon  her  at  home  ;  they  have  recom- 
mended travel.  She  chose  the  course  we  were  to  pursue,  and 


THE   PILGRIMS  OF   tHE   RHINE.  il$ 

fortunately,  it  was  so  familiar  to  me,  that  I  have  been  enabled 
to  brighten  the  way.  I  am  ever  on  the  watch  that  she  shall 
not  know  a  weary  hour  ;  you  would  almost  smile  to  see  how  I 
have  roused  myself  from  my  habitual  silence  ;  and  to  find  me — 
me,  the  scheming  and  worldly  actor  of  real  life,  plunged  back 
into  the  early  romance  of  my  boyhood,  and  charming  the 
childish  delight  of  Gertrude  with  the  invention  of  fables  and 
the  traditions  of  the  Rhine. 

"  But  I  believe  I  have  succeeded  in  my  object  ;  if  not,  what 
is  left  to  me  ?  Gertrude  is  better  !  In  that  sentence  what  vis- 
ions of  hope  dawn  upon  me  !_  I  wish  you  could  have  seen 
Gertrude  before  we  left  England  ;  you  might  then  have  under- 
stood my  love  for  her.  .Not  that  we  have  not,  in  the  gay  capi- 
tals of  Europe,  paid  our  brief  vows  to  forms  more  richly  beau- 
tiful ;  not  that  we  have  not  been  charmed  by  a  more  brilliant 
genius,  by  a  more  tutored  grace.  But  there  is  that  in  Gertrude 
which  I  never  saw  before  ;  the  union  of  the  childish  and  the 
intellectual,  an  ethereal  simplicity,  a  temper  that  is  never 
dimmed,  a  tenderness — oh  God  !  let  me  not  speak  of  her  vir- 
tues, for  they  only  tell  me  how  little  she  is  suited  to  the  earth. 

"  You  will  direct  to  me  at  Mayence,  whither  our  course  now 
leads  us,  and  your  friendship  will  find  indulgence  for  a  letter 
that  is  so  little  a  reply  to  yours. 

"  Your  sincere  friend, 

"  A.  G.  TREVYLYAN," 

CHAPTER  XVIII. 

COBLENTZ. — EXCURSION     TO     THE     MOUNTAINS     OF     TAUNUS  ; 

ROMAN     TOWER     IN     THE     VALLEY     OF     EHRENBREITSTEIN. 

TRAVEL,  ITS  PLEASURES  ESTIMATED  DIFFERENTLY  BY  THE 
YOUNG  AND  THE  OLD. — THE  STUDENT  OF  HEIDELBERG  ;  HIS 
CRITICISMS  ON  GERMAN  LITERATURE. 

GERTRUDE  had,  indeed,  apparently  rallied  during  their  stay 
at  Coblentz  ;  and  a  French  physician  established  in  the  town 
(who  adopted  a  peculiar  treatment  forconsumption,  which  had 
been  attended  with  no  ordinary  success)  gave  her  father  and 
Trevylyan  a  sanguine  assurance  of  her  ultimate  recovery. 
The  time  they  passed  within  the  white  walls  of  Coblentz  was, 
therefore,  the  happiest  and  most  cheerful  part  of  their  pilgrim- 
age. They  visited  the  various  places  in  its  vicinity  ;  but  the 
excursion  which  most  delighted  Gertrude  was  one  to  the 
mountains  of  Taunus. 


110  THE  PILGklMS  OP   THE   RHINE, 

They  took  advantage  of  a  beautlfal  September  day  ;  and 
Crossing  the  river,  commenced  their  tour  from  the  Thai,  or 
valley,  of  Ehrenbreitstein.  They  stopped  on  their  way  to 
view  the  remains  of  a  Roman  tower  in  the  valley  ;  for  the 
whole  of  that  district  bears  frequent  witness  of  the  ancient 
conquerors  of  the  world.  The  mountains  of  Taunus  are  still 
intersected  with  the  roads  which  the  Romans  cut  to  the  mines 
that  supplied  them  with  silver.  Roman  urns,  and  inscribed 
stones,  are  often  found  in  these  ancient  places.  The  stones, 
inscribed  with  names  utterly  unknown — a  type  of  the  uncer- 
tainty of  fame  ! — the  urns,  from  which  the  dust  is  gone — a 
very  satire  upon  life  ! 

Lone,  gray,  and  mouldering,  this  tower  stands  aloft  in  the 
valley  ;  and  the  quiet  Vane  smiled  to  see  the  uniform  of  a 
modern  Prussian,  with  his  white  belt  and  lifted  bayonet,  by  the 
spot  which  had  once  echoed  to  the  clang  of  the  Roman  arms. 
The  soldier  was  paying  a  momentary  court  to  a  country  damsel, 
whose  straw  hat  and  rustic  dress  did  not  stifle  the  vanity  of 
the  sex  ;  and  this  rude  and  humble  gallantry,  in  that  spot, 
was  another  moral  in  the  history  of  human  passions.  Above, 
the  ramparts  of  a  modern  rule  frowned  down  upon  the  solitary 
tower,  as  if  in  the  vain  insolence  with  which  present  power 
looks  upon  past  decay  ;  the  living  race  upon  ancestral  great- 
ness. And  indeed,  in  this  respect,  rightly  !-for  modern  times 
have  no  parallel  to  that  degradation  of  human  dignity  stamped 
upon  the  ancient' world  by  the  long  sway  of  the  Imperial 
Harlot,  all  slavery  herself,  yet  all  tyranny  to  earth  ;  and,  like 
her  own  Messalina,  at  once  a  prostitute  and  an  empress  ! 

They  continued  their  course  by  the  ancient  baths  of  Ems, 
and  keeping  by  the  banks  of  the  romantic  Lahn,  arrived  at 
Holzapfel. 

"Ah,"  said  Gertrude,  one  day  as  they  proceeded  to  the 
springs  of  the  Carlovingian  Wisbaden,  "  surely  perpetual  travel 
with  those  we  love  must  be  the  happiest  state  of  existence. 
If  home  has  its  comforts,  it  also  has  its  cares  ;  but  here  we  are 
at  home  with  Nature,  and  the  minor  evils  vanish  almo'st  before 
they  are  felt." 

"  True,"  said  Trevylyan,  "we  escape  from  'THE  LITTLE,' 
which  is  the  curse  of  life  ;  the  small  cares  that  devour  us  up, 
the  grievances  of  the  day.  We  are  feeding  the  divinest  part 
of  our  nature, — the  appetite  to  admire." 

"But  of  all  things  wearisome,"  said  Vane,  "a  succession  of 
changes  is  the  most.  There  can  be  a  monotony  in  variety 
itself.  As  the  eye  aches  in  gazing  long  at  the  new  shapes  oi 


THE    PILGRIMS   OF    THE    RHINE.  117 

the  kaleidoscope,  the  mind  aches  at  the  fatigue  of  a  constant 
alternation  of  objects  ;  and  we  delightedly  return  to  REST, 
which  is  to  life  what  green  is  to  the  earth." 

In  the  course  of  their  sojourn  among  the  various  baths  of 
Taunus,  they  fell  in,  by  accident,  with  a  German  student  of 
Heidelberg,  who  was  pursuing  the  pedestrian  excursions  so 
peculiarly  favored  by  his  tribe.  He  was  tamer  and  gentler 
than  the  general  herd  of  those  young  wanderers,  and  our 
party  were  much  pleased  with  his  enthusiasm,  because  it  was 
unaffected.  He  had  been  in  England,  and  spoke  its  language 
almost  as  a  native. 

"Our  literature,"  said  he,  one  day,  conversing  with  Vane, 
"  has  two  faults  :  we  are  too  subtle  and  too  homely.  We  do 
not  speak  enough  to  the  broad  comprehension  of  mankind  ; 
we  are  forever  making  abstract  qualities  of  flesh  and  blood. 
Our  critics  have  turned  your  Hamlet  into  an  allegory  ;  they 
will  not  even  allow  Shakspeare  to  paint  mankind,  but  insist  on 
his  embodying  qualities.  They  turn  poetry  into  metaphysics, 
and  truth  seems  to  them  shallow,  unless  an  allegory,  which  is 
false,  can  be  seen  at  the  bottom.  Again,  too,  with  our  most 
imaginative  works  we  mix  a  homeliness  that  we  fancy  touching, 
but  which  in  reality  is  ludicrous.  We  eternally  step  from  the 
sublime  to  the  ridiculous — we  want  taste." 

"  But  not,  I  hope,  French  taste.  Do  not  govern  a  Goethe, 
or  even  a  Richter,  by  a  Boileau  ! "  said  Trevylyan. 

"  No,  but  Boileau's  taste  was  false.  Men  who  have  the 
reputation  for  good  taste  often  acquire  it  solely  because  of 
the  want  of  genius.  By  taste,  I  mean  a  quick  tact  into  the 
harmony  of  composition,  the  art  of  making  the  whole  con- 
sistent with  its  parts,  the  condnnitas — Schiller  alone  of  our 
authors  has  it;  but  we  are  fast  mending;  and,  by  following 
shadows  so  long,  we  have  been  led  at  last  to  the  substance. 
Our  past  literature  is  to  us  what  astrology  was  to  science— 
false  but  ennobling,  and  conducting  us  to  the  true  language 
of  the  intellectual  heaven." 

Another  time  the  scenes  they  passed,  interspersed  with  the 
ruins  of  frequent  monasteries,  leading  them  to  converse  on  the 
monastic  life,  and  the  various  additions  time  makes  to  religion, 
the  German  said  :  "  Perhaps  one  of  the  works  most  wanted  in 
the  world  is  the  historv  of  Religion.  We  have  several  books, 
it  is  true,  on  the  subject,  but  none  that  supply  the  want  I 
allude  to.  A  German  ought  to  write  it ;  for  it  is,  probably, 
only  a  German  that  would  have  the  requisite  learning.  A 
German  only,  too,  is  likely  to  treat  the  mighty  subject  with 


Il8  THE   PILGRIMS   OF    THE   RHINE. 

boldness,  and  yet  with  veneration  ;  without  the  shallow  flip- 
pancy of  the  Frenchman,  without  the  timid  sectarianism  of  the 
English.  It  would  be  a  noble  task  to  trace  the  winding  mazes 
of  antique  falsehood  ;  to  clear  up  the  first  glimmerings  of 
divine  truth  ;  to  separate  Jehovah's  word  from  man's  inven- 
tion ;  to  vindicate  the  All-merciful  from  the  dread  creeds  of 
bloodshed  and  of  fear  :  and,  watching  in  the  great  Heaven  of 
Truth  the  dawning  of  the  True  Star,  follow  it,  like  the  Magi 
of  the\East,  till  it  rested  above  the  real  God.  Not  indeed 
presuming  to  such  a'  task,"  continued  the  German,  with  a 
slight  blush,  "  I  have  about  me  an  humble  essay,  which  treats 
only  of  one  part  of  that  august  subject  ;  which,  leaving  to  a 
loftier  genius  the  history  of  the  true  religion,  may  be  con- 
sidered as  the  history  of  a  false  one — of  such  a  creed  as 
Christianity  supplanted  in  the  North  ;  or  such  as  may  perhaps 
be  found  among  the  fiercest  of  the  savage  tribes.  It  is  a  fic- 
tion, as  you  may  conceive  ;  but  yet,  by  a  constant  reference  to 
the  early  records  of  human  learning,  I  have  studied  to  weave 
it  up  from  truths.  If  you  would  like  to  hear  it — it  is  very 
short — " 

"Above  all  things,"  said  Vane;  and  the  German  drew  a 
manuscript  neatly  bound,  from  his  pocket. 

"After  having  myself  criticised  so  insolently  the  faults  of 
our  national  literature,"  said  he,  smiling,  "  you  will  have  a 
right  to  criticise  the  faults  that  belong  to  so  humble  a  disciple 
of  it.  But  you  will  see  that,  though  I  have  commenced  with 
the  allegorical  or  the  supernatural,  I  have  endeavored  to  avoid 
the  subtlety  of  conceit,  and  the  obscurity  of  design,  which  I 
blame  in  the  wilder  of  our  authors.  As  to  the  style,  I  wish  to 
suit  it  to  the  subject  ;  it  ought  to  be,  unless  I  err,  rugged  and 
massive  ;  hewn,  as  it  were,  out  of  the  rock  of  primaeval  lan- 
guage. But  you,  madam — doubtless  you  do  not  understand 
German  ? " 

"  Her  mother  was  an  Austrian,"  said  Vane  ;  "  and  she 
knows  at  least  enough  of  the  tongue  to  understand  you  ;  so 
pray  begin." 

Without  further  preface,  the  German  then  commenced  the 
story,  which  the  reader  will  find  translated  *  in  the  next 
chapter. 

*  Nevertheless  I  beg  to  state  seriously,  that  the  German  student  is  an  impostor ;   and 
that  he  has  no  right  to  wrest  the  oarenta^e  of  the  fiction  from  the  true  author. 


THE    PILGRIMS   OF    THE    RHINE.  119 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

THE    FALLEN    STAR  ;      OR,  THE    HISTORY  OF  A  FALSE  RELIGION. 

AND  the  STARS  sat,  each  on  his  ruby  throne,  and  watched 
with  sleepless  eyes  upon  the  world.  It  was  the  night  ushering 
in  the  new  year — a  night  on  which  every  star  receives  from  the 
archangel  that  then  visits  the  universal  galaxy,  its  peculiar 
charge.  The  destinies  of  men  and  empires  are  then  portioned 
forth  for  the  coming  year,  and,  unconsciously  to  ourselves, 
our  fates  become  minioned  to  the  stars.  A  hushed  and  solemn 
night. is  that  in  which  the  dark  Gates  of  Time  open  to  receive 
the  ghost  of  the  Dead  Year,  and  the  young  and  radiant 
Stranger  rushes  forth  from  the  clouded  chasms  of  Eternity. 
On  that  night,  it  is  said,  that  there  are  given  to  the  spirits  that 
we  see  not,  a  privilege  and  a  power  ;  the  dead  are  troubled  in 
*heir  forgotten  graves,  and  men  feast  and  laugh,  while  demon 
<uid  angel  are  contending  for  their  doom. 

It  was  night  in  heaven  ;  all  was  unutterably  silent,  the  music 
of  the  spheres  had  paused,  and  not  a  sound  came  from  the 
angels  of  the  stars,  and  they  who  sat  upon  those  shining 
thrones  were  three  thousand  and  ten,  each  resembling  each. 
Eternal  youth  clothed  their  radiant  limbs  with  celestial  beauty, 
and  on  their  faces  was  written  the  dread  of  calm,  that  fearful 
stillness  which  feels  not,  sympathizes  not  with  the  dooms  over 
which  it  broods.  War,  tempest,  pestilence,  the  rise  of  empires, 
and  their  fall,  they  ordain,  they  compass,  unexultant  and  un- 
compassionate.  The  fell  and  thrilling  crimes  that  stalk  abroad 
when  the  world  sleeps,  the  parricide  with  his  stealthy  step, 
and  horrent  brow,  and  lifted  knife  ;  the  unwifed  mother  that 
glides  out  and  looks  behind,  and  behind,  and  shudders,  and 
casts  her  babe  upon  the  river,  and  hears  the  wail,  and  pities 
not — the  splash,  and  does  not  tremble  ;  these  the  starred 
kings  behold  ;  to  these  they  lead  the  unconscious  step  ;  but 
the  guilt  blanches  not  their  lustre,  neither  doth  remorse  wither 
their  unwrinkled  youth.  Each  star  wore  a  kingly  diadem  ; 
round  the  loins  of  each  was  a  graven  belt — graven  with  many 
and  mighty  signs  ;  and  the  foot  of  each  was  on  a  burning  ball, 
and  the  right  arm  drooped  over  the  knee  as  they  bent  down 
from  their  thrones  ;  they  moved  not  a  limb  or  feature,  save 
the  finger  of  the  right  hand,  which  ever  and  anon  moved 
slowly  pointing,  and  regulated  the  fates  of  men  as  the  hand  of 
the  dial  speaks  the  career  of  time. 

One  only  of  the  three  thousand  and  ten  wore  not  the  same 


120  THE    PILGRIMS    OF    THE    RHINE. 

aspect  as  his  crowned  brethren  ;  a  star,  smaller  than  the  rest, 
and  less  luminous  ;  the  countenance  of  this  star  was  not  im- 
pressed with  the  awful  calmness  of  the  others  ;  but  there  were 
sullenness  and  discontent  upon  his  mighty  brow. 

And  this  star  said  to  himself :  x"  Behold  !  I  am  created  less 
glorious  than  my  fellows,  and  the  archangel  apportions  not  to 
me  the  same  lordly  destinies.  Not  for  me  are  the  dooms  of 
kings  and  bards,  the  rulers  of  empires,  or,  yet  nobler,  the 
svvayers  and  harmonists  of  souls.  Sluggish  are  the  spirits  and 
base  the  lot  of  the  men  I  am  ordained  to  lead  through  a  dull 
life  to  a  fameless  grave.  And  wherefore  ?  Is  it  mine  own 
fault,  or  is  it  the'  fault  which  is  not  mine,  that  I  was  woven  of 
beams  less  glorious  than  my  brethren  ?  Lo  !  when  the  arch- 
angel comes,  I  will  bow  not  my  crowned  head  to  his  decrees. 
I  will  speak,  as  the  ancestral  Lucifer  before  me  :  he  rebelled 
because  of  his  glory,  /because  of  my  obscurity;  Jie  from  the 
ambition  of  pride,  and  /from  its  discontent." 

And  while  the  star  was  thus  communing  with  himself,  the 
upward  heavens  were  parted  as  by  a  long  river  of  light,  and 
adovvn  that  stream  swiftly,  and  without  sound,  sped  the  arch- 
angel visitor  of  the  stars  ;  his  vast  limbs  floated  in  the  liquid 
lustre,  and  his  outspread  wings,  each  plume  the  glory  of  a  sun, 
bore  him  noiselessly  along  ;  but  thick  clouds  veiled  his  lustre 
from  the  eyes  of  mortals,  and  while  above  all  was  bathed  in 
the  serenity  of  his  splendor,  tempest  and  storm  broke  below 
over  the  children  of  the  earth  :  "  He  bowed  the  heavens  and 
came  down,  and  darkness  was  under  his  feet." 

And  the  stillness  on  the  faces  of  the  stars  became  yet  more 
still,  and  the  awfulness  was  humbled  into  awe.  Right  above 
their  thrones  paused  the  course  of  the  archangel  ;  and  his 
wings  stretched  from  east  to  west,  overshadowing  with  the 
shadow  of  light  the  immensity  of  space.  Then  forth,  in  the 
shining  stillness,  rolled  the  dread  music  of  his  voice  :  and,  ful- 
filling the  heraldry  of  God,  to  each  star  he  appointed  the  duty 
and  the  charge,  and  each  star  bowed  his  head  yet  lower  as  he 
heard  the  fiat,  while  his  throne  rocked  and  trembled  at  the 
Majesty  of  the  Word.  But  at  last,  when  each  of  the  brighter 
stars  had,  in  succession,  received  the  mandate,  and  the  vice- 
royalty  over  the  nations  of  the  earth,  the  purple  and  diadems 
of  kings — the  archangel  addressed  the  lesser  star  as  he  sat 
apart  from  his  fellows  : 

"  Behold,"  said  the  archangel,  "  the  rude  tribes  of  the  north, 
the  fishermen  of  the  river  that  flows  beneath,  and  the  hunters 
of  the  forests,  that  darken  the  mountain  tops  with  verdure! 


THE   PILGRIMS  Of   THE   RHINE.  121 

these  be  thy  charge,  and  their  destinies  thy  care.  Nor  deem 
thou,  O  Star  of  the  sullen  beams,  that  thy  duties  are  less 
glorious  than  the  duties  of  thy  brethren  ;  for  the  peasant  is 
not  less  to  thy  master  and  mine  than  the  monarch  ;  nor  doth 
the  doom  of  empires  rest  more  upon  the  sovereign  than  on  the 
herd.  The  passions  and  the  heart  are  the  dominion  of  the 
stars — a  mighty  realm  ;  nor  less  mighty  beneath  the  hide  that 
garbs  the  shepherd,  than  under  the  jewelled  robes  of  the 
eastern  kings." 

Then  the  star  lifted  his  pale  front  from  his  breast,  and 
answered  the  archangel  : 

"  Lo  !  "  he  said,  "  ages  have  past,  and  each  year  thou  hast 
appointed  me  to  the  same  ignoble  charge.  Release  me,  I  pray 
thee,  from  the  duties  that  I  scorn  ;  or,  if  thou  wilt  that  the 
lowlier  race  of  men  be  my  charge,  give  unto  me  the  charge  not 
of  many,  but  of  one,  and  suffer  me  to  breathe  into  him  the 
desire  that  spurns  the  valleys  of  life,  and  ascends  its  steeps. 
If  the  humble  are  given  to  me,  let  there  be  amongst  them  one 
whom  I  may  lead  on  the  mission  that  shall  abase  the  proud  ; 
for,  behold,  O  Appointer  of  the  Stars,  as  I  have  sat  for  un- 
counted years  upon  my  solitary  throne,  brooding  over  the 
things  beneath,  my  spirit  hath  gathered  wisdom  from  the 
changes  that  shift  below.  Looking  upon  the  tribes  of  earth,  I 
have  seen  how  the  multitude  are  swayed,  and  tracked  the  steps 
that  lead  weakness  into  power.;  and  fain  would  I  be  the  ruler 
of  one  who,  if  abased,  shall  aspire  to  rule." 

As  a  sudden  cloud  over  the  face  of  noon  was  the  change  on 
the  brow  of  the  archangel. 

"  Proud  and  melancholy  star,"  said  the  herald,  "  thy  wish 
would  war  with  the  courses  of  the  invisible  DESTINY,  that, 
throned  far  above,  sways  and  harmonizes  all ;  the  source  from 
which  the  lesser  rivers  of  fate  are  eternally  gushing  through 
the  heart  of  the  universe  of  things.  Thinkest  thou  that  thy 
wisdom,  of  itself,  can  lead  the  peasant  to  become  a  king  ?  " 

And  the  crowned  star  gazed  undauntedly  on  the  face  of  the 
archangel,  and  answered  : 

"  Yea  ! — grant  me  but  one  trial !  " 

Ere  the  archangel  could  reply,  the  farthest  centre  of  the 
heaven  was  rent  as  by  a  thunderbolt  ;  and  the  divine  herald 
covered  his  face  with  his  hands,  and  a  voice  low  and  sweet, 
and  mild  with  the  consciousness  of  unquestionable  power, 
spoke  forth  to  the  repining  star. 

"  The  time  has  arrived  when  thou  mayest  have  thy  wish. 
Below  thee,  upon  yon  solitary  plain,  sits  a  mortal,  gloomy  as 


122  THE   ftUJRtMS  OF    THE   RHINE. 

thyself,  who,  born  under  thy  influence,  may  be   moulded  to 
thy  will." 

The  voice  ceased  as  the  voice  of  a  dream.  Silence  was 
over  the  seas  of  space,  and-  the  archangel,  once  more  borne 
aloft,  slowly  soared  away  into  the  farther  heaven,  to  promulgate 
the  divine  bidding  to  the  stars  of  far-distant  worlds.  But 
the  soul  of  the  discontented  star  exulted  within  itself ;  and  it 
said  :  "  I  will  call  forth  a  king  from  the  valley  of  the  herds- 
man, that  shall  trample  on  the  kings  subject  to  my  fellows, 
and  render  the  charge  of  the  contemned  star  more  glorious 
than  the  minions  of  its  favored  brethren  ;  thus  shall  I  revenge 
neglect — thus  shall  I  prove  my  claim  hereafter  to  the  heritage 

of  the  great  of  earth  !  " 

******* 

At  that  time,  though  the  world  had  rolled  on  for  ages,  and 
the  pilgrimage  of  man  had  passed  through  various  states 
of  existence,  which  our  dim,  traditionary  knowledge  has  not 
preserved,  yet  the  condition  of  our  race  in  the  northern  hemi- 
sphere was  then  what  we,  in  our  imperfect  lore,  have  conceived 

to  be  among  the  earliest. 

******* 

By  a  rude  and  vast  pile  of  stones,  the  masonry  of  arts  for- 
gotten, a  lonely  man  sat  at  midnight,  gazing  upon  the  heavens  ; 
a  storm  had  just  passed  from  the  earth  ;  the  clouds  had  rolled 
away,  and  the  high  stars  looked  down  upon  the  rapid  waters 
of  the  Rhine  ;  and  no  sound  save  the  roar  of  the  waves,  and 
the  dripping  of  the  rain  from  the  mighty  trees,  was  heard 
around  the  ruined  pile  :  the  white  sheep  lay  scattered  on  the 
plain,  and  slumber  with  them.  He  sat  watching  over  the  herd, 
lest  the  foes  of  a  neighboring  -tribe  seized  them  unawares,  and 
thus  he  communed  with  himself :  ''  The  king  sits  upon  his 
throne,  and  is  honored  by  a  warrior  race,  and  the  warrior 
exults  in  the  trophies  he  has  won  ;  the  step  of  the  huntsman 
is  bold  upon  the  mountain-top,  and  his  name  is  sung  at  night 
round  the  pine-fires,  by  the  lips  of  the  bard  ;  and  the  bard 
himself  hath  honor  in  the  hall.  But  I,  who  belong  not  to  the 
race  of  kings,  and  whose  limbs  can  bound  not  to  the  rapture 
of  war,  nor  scale  the  eyries  of  the  eagle  and  the  haunts  of  the 
swift  stag;  whose  hand  cannot  string  the  harp,  and  whose 
voice  is  harsh  in  the  song  ;  /have  neither  honor  nor  command, 
and  men  bow  not  the  head  as  I  pass  along  ;  yet  do  I  feel  within 
me  the  consciousness  of  a  great  power  that  should  rule  my 
species — not  obey.  My  eye  pierces  the  secret  hearts  of  men  ; 
I  see  their  thoughts  ere  their  lips  proclaim  them  ;  and  I  scorn, 


THE  PILGRIMS  OF  THE  RHINE.  123 

while  I  see,  the  weakness  and  the  vices  which  I  never  shared ; 
I  laugh  at  the  madness  of  the  war'rior,  I  mock  within  my  soul 
at  the  tyranny  of  kings.  Surely  there  is  something  in  man's 
nature  more  fitted  to  command,  more  worthy  of  renown,  than 
the  sinews  of  the  arm,  or  the  swiftness  of  the  feet,  or  the  acci- 
dent of  birth  ! " 

As  Morven,  the  son  of  Osslah,  thus  mused  within  himself, 
still  looking  at  the  heavens,  the  solitary  man  beheld  a  star 
suddenly  shooting  from  its  place,  and  speeding  through  the 
silent.air,  till  it  suddenly  paused  right  over  the  midnight  river, 
and  facing  the  inmate  of  the  pile  of  stones. 

As  he  gazed  upon  the  star, 'strange  thoughts  grew  slowly 
over  him.  He  drank,  as  it  were,  from  its  solemn  aspect,  the 
spirit  of  a  great  design.  A  dark  cloud,  rapidly  passing  over 
the  earth,  snatched  the  star  from  his  sight  ;  but  left  to  his 
awakened  mind  the  thoughts  and  the  dim  scheme  that  had 
come  to  him  as  he  gazed. 

.  When  the  sun  arose,  one  of  his  brethren  relieved  him  of  his 
charge  over  the  herd,  and  he  went  away,  but  not  to  his  father's 
home.  Musingly  he  plunged  into  the  dark  and  leafless  recesses 
of  the  winter  forest  ;  and  shaped  out  of  his  wild  thoughts,  more 
palpably  and  clearly,  the  outline  of  his  daring  hope.  While 
thus  absorbed,  he  heard  a  great  noise  in  the  forest,  and,  fear- 
ful lest  the  hostile  tribe  of  the  Alrich  might  pierce  that  way, 
he  ascended  one  of  the  loftiest  pine  trees,  to  whose  perpetual 
verdure  the  winter  had  not  denied  the  shelter  he  sought,  and 
concealed  by  its  branches,  he  looked  anxiously  forth  in  the 
direction  whence  the  noise  had  proceeded.  And  IT  came— it 
came  with  a  tramp  and  a  crash,  and  a  crushing  tread  upon  the 
crunched  boughs  and  matted  leaves  that  strewed  the  soil — it 
came — it  came,  the  monster  that  the  world  now  holds  no  more, 
the  mighty  Mammoth  of  the  North  !  Slowly  it  moved  in  its 
huge  strength  along,  and  its  burning  eyes  glittered  through 
the  gloomy  shade  ;  its  jaws,  falling  apart,  showed  the  grinders 
with  which  it  snapped  asunder  the  young  oaks  of  the  forest ; 
and  the  vast  tusks,  which,  curved  downward  to  the  midst  of 
its  massive  limbs,  glistened  white  and  ghastly,  curdling  the 
blood  of  one  destined  hereafter  to  be  the  dreadest  ruler  of  the 
men  of  that  distant  age. 

The  livid  eyes  of  the  monster  fastened  on  the  form  of  the 
herdsman,  even  amidst  the  thick  darkness  of  the  pine.  It 
paused  ;  it  glared  upon  him  ;  its  jaws  opened,  and  a  low,  deep 
sound,  as  of  gathering  thunder,  seemed  to  the  son  of  Osslah 
as  the  knell  of  a  dreadful  grave.  But  after  glaring  on  him  for 


124  THE   PILGRIMS  OF   THE   RHltfE. 

some  moments,  it  again,  and  calmly,  pursued  its  terrrible  way, 
crashing  the  boughs  as  it  marched  along,  till  tlie  last  sound  of 
its  heavy  tread  died  away  upon  his  ear.* 

Ere  yet,  however,  Morven  summoned  the  courage  to  descend 
the  tree,  he  saw  the  shining  of  arms  through  the  bare  branches 
of  the  wood,  and  presently  a  small  band  of  the  hostile  Alrich 
came  into  sight.  He  was  perfectly  hidden  from  them  ;  and, 
listening  as  they  passed  him,  he  heard  one  say  to  another  : 

i(  The  night  covers  all  things  ;  why  attack  them  by  day  ?" 

And  he  who  seemed  the  chief  of  the  band  answered  : 

"  Right.  To-night,  when  they  sleep  in  their  city,  we  will 
upon  them.  Lo  !  they  will  be-drenched  in  wine,  and  fall  like 
sheep  into  our  hands." 

"  But  where,  O  chief,"  said  a  third  of  the  band,  "  shall  our 
men  hide  during  the  day  ?  For  there  are  many  huntersamong 
the  youth  of  the  Oestrich  tribe,  and  they  might  see  us  in  the 
forest  unawares,  and  arm  their  race  against  our  coming." 

"  I  have  prepared  for  that,"  answered  the  chief.  u  Is  not 
the  dark  cavern  of  Oderlin  at  hand  ?  Will  it  not  shelter  us 
from  the  eyes  of  the  victims  ?" 

Then  the  men  laughed,  and,  shouting,  they  went  their  way 
adown  the  forest. 

When  they  were  gone  Morven  cautiously  descended,  and, 
striking  into  a  broad  path,  hastened  to  a  vale  that  lay  between 
the  forest  and  the  river  in  which  was  the  city  where  the  chief 
of  his  country  dwelt.  As  he  passed  by  the  warlike  men,  giants 
in  that  day,  who  thronged  the  streets  (if  streets  they  might  be 
called),  their  half  garments  parting  from  their  huge  limbs,  the 
quiver  at  their  backs,  and  the  hunting  spear  in  their  hands, 
they  laughed  and  shouted  out,  and,  pointing  to  him,  cried  : 
"  Morven,  the  woman  !  Morven,  the  cripple !  what  dost  thou 
among  men  ?  " 

For  the  son  of  Osslah  was  small  in  stature  and  of  slender 
strength,  and  his  step  had  halted  from  his  birth  ;  but  he  passed 
through  the  warriors  unheedingly.  At  the  outskirts  of  the  city 
he  came  upon  a  tall  pile  in  which  some  old  men  dwelt  by  them- 
selves, and  counselled  the  king  when  times  of  danger,  or  when 
the  failure  of  the  season,  the  famine  or  the  drought,  perplexed 
the  ruler,  and  clouded  the  savage  fronts  of  his  warrior  tribe. 

They  gave  the  counsels  of  experience,  and  when  experience 
failed  they  drew,  in  their  believing  ignorance,  assurances  and 
omens  from  the  winds  of  heaven,  the  changes  of  the  moon,  and 

*  The  critic  will  perceive   that  this   sketch   of  the  beast,   whose   race  has  perished,  is 
mainly  intended  to  designate  the  remote  period  of  the  world  in  which  the  tale  is  cast. 


THE   PILGRIMS  OP   THE   RHINE.  125 

the  flights  of  the  wandering  birds.  Filled  (by  the  voices  of  the 
elements,  and  the  variety  of  mysteries  which  ever  shift  along 
the  face  of  things,  unsolved  by  the  wonder  which  pauses  not, 
the  fear  which  believes,  and  that  eternal  reasoning  of  all  ex- 
perience, which  assigns  causes  to  effect)  with  the  notion  of  su- 
perior powers,  they  assisted  their  ignorance  by  the  conjectures 
of  their  superstition.  But  as  yet  they  knew  no  craft  and  prac- 
tised no  voluntary  delusion  ;  they  trembled  too  much  at  the 
mysteries  which  had  created  their  faith  to  seek  to  belie  them. 
They  counselled  as  they  believed,  and  the  bold  dream  of  gov- 
erning their  warriors  and  their  kings  by  the  wisdom  of  deceit 
had  never  dared  to  cross  men  thus  worn  and  gray  with  age. 

The  son  of  Osslah  entered  the  vast  pile  with  a  fearless  step, 
and  approached  the  place  at  the  upper  end  of  the  hall  where 
the  old  men  sat  in  conclave. 

"  How,  base-born  and  craven  limbed  !  "  cried  the  eldest, 
who  had  been  a  noted  warrior  in  his  day  ;  "darest  thou  enter 
unsummoned  amidst  the  secret  councils  of  the  wise  men  ? 
Knowest  thou  not,  scatterling,  that  the  penalty  is  death?  " 

"  Slay  me,  if  thou  wilt,"  answered  Morven,  "  but  hear  !  As 
I  sat  last  night  in  the  ruined  palace  of  our  ancient  kings, 
tending,  as  my  father  bade  me,  the  sheep  that  grazed  around, 
lest  the  fierce  tribe  of  Alrich  should  descend  unseen  from  the 
mountains  upon  the  herd,  a  storm,  came  darkly  on  ;  and  vvhen 
the  storm  had  ceased,  and  I  looked  above  on  the  sky,  I  saw 
a  star  descend  from  its  height  towards  me,  and  a  voice  from 
the  star  said,  '  Son  of  Osslah,  leave  thy  herd  and  seek  the 
council  of  the  wise  men,  and  say  unto  them,  that  they  take 
thee  as  one  of  their  number,  or  that  sudden  will  be  the  de- 
struction of  them  and  theirs.'  But  I  had  courage  to  answer 
the  voice,  and  I  said  :  '  Mock  not  the  poor  son  of  the  herds- 
man. Behold  they  will  kill  me  if  I  utter  so  rash  a  word,  for  I 
am  poor  and  valueless  in  the  eyes  of  the  tribe  of  Oestrich,  and 
the  great  in  deeds  and  the  gray  of  hair  alone  sit  in  the  council 
of  the  wise  men.' 

"  Then  the  voice  said,  '  Do  my  bidding,  and  I  will  give  thee 
a  token  that  thou  comest  from  the  Powers  that  sway  the 
seasons  and  sail  upon  the  eagles  of  the  winds.  Say  unto  the 
wise  men  that  this  very  night,  if  they  refuse  to  receive  thee  of 
their  band,  evil  shall  fall  upon  them,  and  the  morrow  shall 
dawn  in  blood.' 

"  Then  the  voice  ceased,  and  the  cloud  passed  over  the 
star ;  and  I  communed  with  myself,  and  came,  O  dread 
fathers,  mournfully  unto  you.  For  I  feared  that  ye  would 


126  THE   PILGRIMS  OF   THE   RHINE. 

smite  me  because  of  my  bold  tongue,  and  that  ye  would 
sentence  me  to  the  death,  in  that  I  asked  what  may  scarce  be 
given  even  to  the  sons  of  kings." 

Then  the  grim  elders  looked  one  at  the  other,  and  marvelled 
much,  nor  knew  they  what  answer  they  should  make  to  the 
herdsman's  son. 

At  length  one  of  the  wise  men  said,  "  Surely  there  must  be 
truth  in  the  son  of  Osslah,  for  he  would  not  dare  to  falsify  the 
great  lights  of  Heaven.  If  he  had  given  unto  men  the  words 
of  the  star,  verily  we  might  doubt  the  truth.  But  who  would 
brave  the  vengeance  of  the  gods  of  night  ?  " 

Then  the  elders  shook  their  heads  approvingly  ;  but  one 
answered  and  said  : 

"  Shall  we  take  the  herdsman's  son  as  our  equal  ?  No  !  " 
The  name  of  the  man  who  thus,  answered  was  Darvan,  and  his 
words  were  pleasing  to  the  elders. 

But  Morven  spoke  out  :  "  Of  a  truth,  O  councillors  of  kings, 
I  look  not  to  be  an  equal  with  yourselves  !  Enough  if  I  tend 
the  gates  of  your  palace  and  serve  you  as  the  son  of  Osslah 
may  serve  ";  and  he  bowed  his  head  humbly  as  he  spoke. 

Then  said  the  chief  of  the  elders,  for  he  was  wiser  than  the 
others  :  "  But  how  wilt  thou  deliver  u&  from  the  evil  that  is  to 
come  ?  Doubtless  the  star  has  informed  thee  of  the  service 
thou  canst  render  to  us  if  we.take  thee  into  our  palace,  as  well 
as  the  ill  that  will  fall  on  us  if  we  refuse." 

Morven  answered  meekly  :  "  Surely,  if  thou  acceptest  thy 
servant,  the  star  will  teach  him  that  which  may  requite  thee  ; 
but  as  yet  he  knows  only  what  he  has  uttered." 

Then  the  sages  bade  him  withdraw,  and  they  communed 
with  themselves,  and  they  differed  much  ;  but  though  fierce 
men,  and  bold  at  the  war-cry  of  a  human  foe,  they  shuddered 
at  the  prophecy  of  a  star.  So  they  resolved  to  take  the  son 
of  Osslah,  and  suffer  him  to  keep  the  gate  of  the  conncil- 
hall. 

He  heard  their  decree  and  bowed  his  head,  and  went  to  the 
gate,  and  sat  down  by  it  in  silence.  . 

And  the  sun  went  down  in  the  west,  and  the  first  stars  of 
the  twilight  began  to  glimmer,  when  Morven  started  from  his 
seat,  and  a  trembling  appeared  to  seize  his  limbs.  His  lips 
foamed ;  an  agony  and  a  fear  possessed  him  ;  he  writhed  as 
a  man  whom  the  spear  of  a  foeman  has  pierced  with  a  mortal 
wound,  and  suddenly  fell  upon  his  face  on  the  stony  earth. 

The  elders  approached  him  ;  wondering,  they  lifted  him  up. 
He  slowly  recovered  as  from  a  swoon  ;  his  eyes  rolled  wildly. 


THE    PILGRIMS    OF    THE    RHINE*  127 

"  Heard  ye  not  the  voice  of  the  star  ?  "  he  said. 

And  the  chief  of  the  elders  answered  :  "  Nay,  we  heard  no 
sound." 

Then  Morven  sighed  heavily. 

"To  me  only  the  word  was  given.  Summon  instantly,  O 
councillors  of  the  king,  summon  the  armed  men,  and  all  the 
youth  of  the  tribe,  and  let  them  take  the  sword  and  the  spear, 
and  follow  thy  servant.  For  lo  !  the  star  hath  announced  to 
him  that  the  foe  shall  fall  into  our  hands  as  the  wild  beast  of 
the  forests." 

The  son  of  Osslah  spoke  with  the  voice  of  command,  and 
the  elders  were  amazed.  ''  Why  pause  ye  ? "  he  cried.  "  Do 
the  gods  of  the  night  lie  ?  On  my  head  rest  the  peril  if  I  de- 
ceive ye." 

Then  the  elders  communed  together  ;  and  they  went  forth 
and  summoned  the  men  of  arms,  and  all  the  young  of  the 
tribe  ;  and  each  man  took  the  sword  and  the  spear,  and  Mor- 
ven also.  And  the  son  of  Osslah  walked  first,  still  looking  up 
at  the  star,  and  he  motioned  them  to  be  silent,  and  move  with 
a  stealthy  step. 

So  they  went  through  the  thickest  of  the  forest,  till  they  came 
to  the  mouth  of  a  great  cave,  overgrown  with  aged  and  matted 
trees,  and  it  was  called  the  Cave  of  Oderlin  ;  and  he  bade  the 
leaders  place  the  armed  men  on  either  side  the  cave,  to  the 
right  and  to  the  left,  among  the  bushes. 

So  they  watched  silently  till  the  night  deepened,  when  they 
heard  a  noise  in  the  cave  -and  the  sound  of  feet,  and  forth 
came  an  armed  man  ;  and  the  spear  of  Morven  pierced  him, 
and  he  fell  dead  at  the  mouth  of  the  cave.  Another  and  an- 
other, and  both  fell !  Then  loud  and  long  was  heard  the  war- 
cry  of  Alrich,  and  forth  poured,  as  a  stream  over  a  narrow  bed, 
the  river  of  armed  men.  And  the  sons  of  Oestrich  fell  upon 
them,  and  the  foe  were  sorely  perplexed  and  terrified  by  the 
suddenness  of  the  battle  and  the  darkness  of  the  night  ;  and 
there  was  a  great  slaughter. 

And  when  the  morning  came,  the  children  of  Oestiich 
counted  the  slain,  and  found  the  leader  of  Alrich  andthechief 
men  of  the  tribe  amongst  them,  and  great  was  the  joy  thereof. 
So  they  went  back  in  triumph  to  the  city,  and  they  carried  the 
brave  son  of  Osslah  on  their  shoulders,  and  shouted  forth  : 
"  Glory  to  the  servant  of  the  star." 

And  Morven  dwelt  in  the  council  of  the  wise  men. 

Now  the  king  of  the  tribe  had  one  daughter,  and  she  was 
stately  amongst  the  women  of  the  tribe,  and  fair  to  look  upon. 


128  THE    PILGRIMS   OF    THE    RHINE. 

And  Morven  gazed  upon  her  with  the  eyes  of  love,  but  he  did 
not  dare  to  speak. 

Now  the  son  of  Osslah  laughed  secretly  at  the  foolishness  of 
men  ;  he  loved  them  not,  for  they  had  mocked  him  ;  he  hon- 
ored them  not,  for  he  had  blinded  the  wisest  of  their  elders. 
He  shunned  their  feasts  and  merriment,  and  lived  apart  and 
solitary.  The  austerity  of  his  life  increased  the  mysterious 
homage  which  his  commune  with  the  stars  had  won  him,  and 
the  boldest  of  the  warriors  bowed  his  head  to  the  favorite  of 
the  gods. 

One  day  he  was  wandering  by  the  side  of  the  river,  and  he 
saw  a  large  bird  of  prey  rise  from  the  waters,  and  give  chase 
to  a  hawk  that  had  not  yet  gained  the  -full  strength  of  its 
wings.  From  his  youth  the  solitary  Morven  had  loved  to 
watch,  in  the  great  forests  and  by  the  banks  of  the  mighty 
stream,  the  habits  of  the  things  which  nature  has  submitted  to 
man  ;  and  looking  now  on  the  birds,  he  said  to  himself, 
"  Thus  is  it  ever  ;  by  cunning  or  by  strength  each  thing  wishes 
to  master  its  kind."  While  thus  moralizing,  the  larger  bird 
had  stricken  down  the  hawk,  and  it  fell  terrified  and  panting 
at  his  feet.  Morven  took  the  hawk  in  his  hands,  and  the 
vulture  shrieked  above  him,  wheeling  nearer  and  nearer  to  its 
protected  prey ;  but  Morven  scared  away  the  vulture,  and 
placing  the  hawk  in  his  bosom  he  carried*  it  home,  and  tended 
it  carefully,  and  fed  it  from  his  hand  until  it  had  regained  its 
strength  ;  and  the  hawk  knew  him,  and  followed  him  as  a  dog. 
And  Morven  said,  smiling  to  himself,  "  Behold,  the  credulous 
fools  around  me  put  faith  in  the  flight  and  motion  of  birds.  I 
will  teach  this  poor  hawk  to  minister  to  my  ends."  So  he 
tamed  the  bird,  and  tutored  it  according  to  its  nature  ;  but 
he  concealed  it  carefully  from  others,  and  cherished  it  in 
secret. 

The  king  of  the  country  was  old  and  like  to  die,  and  the 
eyes  of  the  tribe  were  turned  to  his  two  sons,  nor  knew  they 
which  was  the  worthier  to  reign.  And  Morven  passing 
through  the  forest  one  evening,  saw  the  younger  of  ijie  two, 
who  was  a  great  hunter,  sitting  mournfully  under  an  oak,  and 
looking  with  musing  eyes  upon  the  ground. 

"  Wherefore  musest  thou,  0  swift-footed  Siror?"  said  the 
son  of  Osslah  ;  "  and  wherefore  art  thou  sad  ? " 

"Thou  canst  not  assist  me,"  answered  the  prince  sternly  ; 
"  take  thy  way." 

"  Nay,"  answered  Morven,  "  thou  knovvest  not  what  thou 
sayest ;  am  I  not  the  favorite  of  the  stars  ?  " 


THE    PILGRIMS    OF    THE    RHINE.  129 

"  Away,  I  am  no  graybearcl  whom  the  approach  of  death 
makes  doting ;  talk  not  to  me  of  the  stars  ;  I  know  only  the 
things  that  my  eye  sees  and  my  ear  drinks  in." 

"  Hush,"  said  Morven  solemnly,  and  covering  his  face ; 
"  hush  !  lest  the  heavens  avenge  thy  rashness.  But,  behold, 
the  stars  have  given  unto  me  to  pierce  the  secret  hearts  of 
others  ;  and  I  can  tell  thee  the  thoughts  of  thine." 

"  Speak  out,  base-born  !  " 

"Thou  art  the  younger  of  two,  and  thy  name  is  less  known 
in  war  than  the  name  of  thy  brother  ;  yet  wouldst  thou  desire 
to  be  set  over  his  head,  and  to  sit  on  the  high  seat  of  thy 
father  ?  " 

The  young  man  turned  pale.  "  Thou  hast  truth  in  thy 
lips,"  said  he,  with  a  faltering  voice. 

"  Not  from  "me,  but  from  the  stars,  descends  the  truth." 

"  Can  the  stars  grant  my  wish  ?  " 

"  They  can  :  let  us  meet  to-morrow."  Thus  saying,  Morven 
passed  into  the  forest. 

The  next  day,  at  noon,  they  met  again. 

"  I  have  consulted  the  gods  of  night,  and  they  have  given 
me  the  power  that  I  prayed  for,  but  on  one  condition." 

"  Name  it." 

"  That  thou  sacrifice  thy  sister  on  their  altars  ;  thou  must 
build  up  a  heap  of  stones,  and  take  thy  sister  into  the  wood, 
and  lay  her  on  the  pile,  and  plunge  thy  sword  into  her  heart  ; 
so  only  shall  thou  reign." 

The  prince  shuddered,  and  started  to  his  feet,  and  shook 
his  spear  at  the  pale  front  of  Morven. 

l<  Tremble,"  said  the  son  of  Osslah,  with  a  loud  voice. 
"  Hark  to  the  gods  who  threaten  thee  with  death,  that  thou 
hast  dared  to  lift  thine  arm  against  their  servant !  " 

As  he  spoke,  the  thunder  rolled  above  ;  for  one  of  the 
frequent  storms  of  the  early  summer  was  about  to  break. 
The  spear  dropped  from  the  prince's  hand  ;  he  sat  down  and 
cast  his  eyes  on  the  ground. 

"  Wilt  thou  do  the  bidding  of  the  stars,  and  reign  ? "  said 
Morven." 

"  I  will !  "  cried  Siror,  with  a  desperate  voice. 

"  This  evening,  then,  when  the  sun  sets,  thou  wilt  lead  her 
hither,  alone ;  I  may  not  attend  thee.  Now,  let  us  pile  the 
stones." 

Silently  the  huntsman  bent  his  vast  strength  to  the  fragments 
of  rock  that  Morven  pointed  to  him,  and  they  built  the  altar, 
and  went  their  way. 


130  THE    PILGRIMS   OF    THE    RHINE. 

And  beautiful  is  the  dying  of  the  great  sun,  when  the  last 
song  of  the  birds  fades  into  the  lap  of  silence ;  when  the 
islands  of  the  cloud  are  bathed  in  light,  and  the  first  star 
springs  up  over  the  grave  of  day  ! 

"  Whither  leadest  thou  my  steps,  my  brother?  "  said  Orna  ; 
"  And  why  doth  thy  lip  quiver  ?  And  why  dost  thou  turn 
afway  thy  face  ? " 

"  Is  not  the  forest  beautiful ;  does  it  not  tempt  us  forth,  my 
sister  ?" 

"  And  wherefore  are  those  heaps  of  stone  piled  together  ?  " 

"  Let  others  answer  ;  /  piled  them  not." 

"  Thou  tremblest,  brother  :  we  will  return." 

"  Not  so  ;  by  those  stones  is  a  bird  that  my  shaft  pierced 
to-day  ;  a  bird  of  beautiful  plumage  that  I  slew  for  thee." 

"  We  are  by  the  pile  ;  where  hast  thou  laid  the  bird  ?" 

"  Here  !  "  cried  Siror  ;  and  he  seized  the  maiden  in  his  arms, 
and,  casting  her  on  the  rude  altar,  he  drew  forth  his  sword  to 
smite  her  to  the  heart. 

Right  over  the  stones  rose  a  giant  oak,  the  growth  of  im- 
memorial ages  ;  and  from  the  oak,  or  from  the  heavens,  broke 
forth  a  loud  and  solemn  voice  :  "  Strike  not,  son  of  kings  ! 
the  stars  forbear  their  own  :  the  maiden  thou  shalt  not  slay  ; 
yet  shalt  thou  reign  over  the  race  of  Oestrich  ;  and  thou  shalt 
give  Orna  as  a  bride  to  the  favorite  of  the  stars.  Arise,  and 
go  thy  way  !  " 

The  voice  ceased  ;  the  terror  of  Orna  had  overpowered  for 
a  time  the  springs  of  life  ;  and  Siror  bore  her  home  through 
the  wood  in  his  strong  arms. 

"  Alas  !  "  said  Morven,  when,  at  the  next  day,  he  again  met 
the  aspiring  prince  ;  "  Alas  !  the  stars  have  ordained  me  a 
lot  which  my  heart  desires  not  :  for  I,  lonely  of  life,  and 
crippled  of  shape,  am  insensible  to  the  fires  of  love  ;  and  ever, 
as  thou  and  thy  tribe  know,  I  have  shunned  the  eyes  of 
women,  for  the  maidens  laugh  at  my  halting  step  and  my 
sullen  features  ;  and  so  in  my  youth  I  learned  betimes  to 
banish  all  thoughts  of  love.  But  since  they  told  me  (as  they 
declared  to  thee),  that  only  through  that  marriage,  thou,  O 
beloved  prince,  canst  obtain  thy  father's  plumed  crown,  I  yield 
me  to  their  will." 

"  But,"  said  the  prince,  "  not  until  I  am  king  can  I  give  thee 
my  sister  in  marriage  ;  for  thou  knowest  that  my  sire  would 
smite  me  to  the  dust,  if  I  asked  him  to  give  the  flower  of  our 
race  to  the  son  of  the  herdsman  Osslah." 

"  Thou  speakest  the  words  of  truth,    Gq  home  and  fear  not : 


THE    PILGRIMS    OF    THE    RHINE.  13! 

but,  when  thou  art  king,  the  sacrifice  must  be  made,  and  Orna 
mine.  Alas  !  how  can  I  dare  to  lift  my  eyes  to  her !  But  so 
ordain  the  dread  kings  of  the  night  ! — who  shall  gainsay  their 
word  ?" 

"  The  day  that  sees  me  king,  sees  Orna  thine,"  answered 
the  prince. 

Morven  walked  forth,  as  was  his  wont,  alone  ;  and  he  said 
to  himself  :  "  The  king  is  old,  yet  may  he  live  long  between 
me  and  mine  hope  !  "  and  he  began  to  cast  in  his  mind  how 
he  might  shorten  the  time.  Thus  absorbed,  he  wandered  on 
so  unheedingly,  that  night  advanced,  and  he  had  lost  his  path 
among  the  thick  woods,  and  knew  not  how  to  regain  his  home  : 
so  he  lay  down  quietly  beneath  a  tree,  and  rested  till  day 
dawned  ;  then  hunger  came  upon  him,  and  he  searched  among 
the  bushes  for  such  simple  roots  as  those  with  which,  for  he 
was  ever  careless  of  food,  he  was  used  to  appease  the  cravings  of 
nature. 

He  found,  among  other  more  familiar  herbs  and  roots,  a  red 
berry  of  a  sweetish  taste,  which  he  had  never  observed  before. 
He  ate  of  it  sparingly,  and  had  not  proceeded  far  in  the  wood 
before  he  found  his  eyes  swim,  and  a  deadly  sickness  came 
over  him.  For  several  hours  he  lay  convulsed  on  the  ground 
expecting  death  ;  but  the  gaunt  spareness  of  his  frame,  and 
his  unvarying  abstinence,  prevailed  over  the  poison,  and  he 
recovered  slowly,  and  after  great  anguish  :  but  he  went  with 
feeble  steps  back  to  the  spot  where  the  berries  grew,  and, 
plucking  several,  hid  them  in  his  bosom,  and  by  nightfall 
regained  the  city. 

The  next  day  he  went  forth  among  his  father's  herds,  and 
seizing  a  lamb,  forced  some  of  the  berries  into  its  stomach,  and 
the  lamb,  escaping,  ran  away,  and  fell  down  dead.  Then 
Morven  took  some  more  of  the  berries  and  boiled  them  down, 
and  mixed  the  juice  with  wine,  and  he  gave  the  wine  in  secret 
to  one  of  his  father's  servants,  and  the  servant  died. 

Then  Morven  sought  the  king,  and  coming  into  his  pres- 
ence alone,  he  said  unto  him  :  "  How  fares  my  lord  ? " 

The  king  sat  on  a  couch,  made  of  the  skins  of  wolves,  and 
his  eye  was  glassy  and  dim  ;  but  vast  were  his  aged  limbs,  and 
huge  was  his  stature,  and  he  had  been  taller  by  a  head  than  the 
children  of  men,  and  none  living  could  bend  the  bow  he  had 
bent  in  youth.  Gray,  gaunt,  and  worn,  as  some  mighty  bones 
that  are  dug  at  times  from  the  bosom  of  the  earth — a  relic  of 
the  strength  of  old. 

And  the  king  said  faintly,  and  with  a  ghastly  laugh : 


132  THE    PILGRIMS   OF    THE    RHINE. 

"The  men  of  my  years  fare  ill.  What  avails  my  strength? 
Better  had  I  been  born  a  cripple  like  thee,  so  should  I  have 
had  nothing  to  lament  in  growing  old." 

The  red  flush  passed  over  Morven's  brow  ;  but  he  bent 
humbly  : 

"  O  king,  what  if  I  could  give  thee  back  thy  youth  ?  What 
if  I  could  restore  to  thee  the  vigor  which  distinguished  thee 
above  the  sons  of  men,  when  the  warriors  of  Alrich  fell  like 
grass  before  thy  sword  ?  " 

Then  the  king  uplifted  his  dull  eyes,  and  he  said  : 

"  What  meanest  thou,  son  of  Osslah  !  Surely  I  hear  much 
of  thy  great  wisdom,  and  how  thou  speakest  nightly  with  the 
stars.  Can  the  gods  of  the  night  give  unto  thee  the  secret  to 
make  the  old  young?  " 

"  Tempt  them  not  by  doubt,"  said  Morven  reverently.  "  All 
things  are  possible  to  the  rulers  of  the  dark  hour;  and,  lo  ! 
the  star  that  loves  thy  servant  spake  to  him  at  the  dead  of 
night,  and  said  :  'Arise,  and  go  unto  the  king  ;  and  tell  him 
that  the  stars  honor  the  tribe  of  Oestrich,  and  remember  how 
the  king  bent  his  bow  against  the  sons  of  Alrich  ;  wherefore, 
look  thou  under  the  stone  that  lies  to  the  right  of  thy  dwelling, 
even  beside  the  pine-tree,  and  thou  shall  see  a  vessel  of  clay, 
and  in  the  vessel  thou  wilt  find  a  sweet  liquid,  that  shall  make 
the  king  thy  master  forget  his  age  forever.'  Therefore,  my 
lord,  when  the  morning  rose  I  went  forth,  and  looked  under 
the  stone,  and  behold  the  vessel  of  clay  ;  and  I  have  brought 
it  hither  to  my  lord,  the  king." 

"  Quick,  slave,  quick  !  that  I  may  drink  and  regain  my 
youth  ! " 

"  Nay,  listen,  O  king  !  farther  said  the  star  to  me  : 

" '  It  is  only  at  night,  when  the  stars  have  power,  that  this 
their  gift  will  avail ;  wherefore,  the  king  must  wait  till  the 
hush  of  the  midnight,  when  the  moon  is  high,  and  then  may  he 
mingle  the  liquid  with  his  wine.  And  he  must  reveal  to  none 
that  he  hath  received  the  gift  from  the  hand  of  the  servant  of 
the  stars.  For  THEY  do  their  work  in  secret,  and  when  men 
sleep  ;  therefore  they  love  not  the  babble  of  mouths,  and  he 
who  reveals  their  benefits  shall  surely  die.'  " 

"  Fear  not,"  said  the  king,  grasping  the  vessel  ;  "  none  shall 
know  :  and,  behold,  I  will  rise  on  the  morrow  ;  and  my  two 
sons — wrangling  for  my  crown — verily  I  shall  be  younger  than 
they  !  " 

Then  the  king  laughed  loud  ;  and  he  scarcely  thanked  the 
servant  of  the  stars,  neither  did  he  promise  him  reward  ;  for 


THE   PILGRIMS  OF   THE   RHINE.  133 

the  kings  in  those  days  had  little  thought,  save  for  them- 
selves. 

And  Morven  said  to  him,  "  Shall  I  not  attend  my  lord  ?  for 
without  me,  perchance,  the  drug  might  fail  of  its  effect." 

''Ay,"  said  the  king,  "  rest  here." 

"  Nay,"  replied  Morven ;  "  thy  servants  will  marvel  and 
talk  much,  if  they  see  the  son  of  Osslah  sojourning  in  thy 
palace.  So  would  the  displeasure  of  the  gods  of  night  per- 
chance be  incurred.  Suffer  that  the  lesser  door  of  the  palace 
be  unbarred,  so  that  at  the  night  hour,  when  the  moon  is  mid- 
way in  the  heavens,  I  may  steal  unseen  into  thy  chamber,  and 
mix  the  liquid  with  thy  wine." 

"  So  be  it,"  said  the  king.  "  Thou  art  wise,  though  thy  limbs 
are  crooked  and  curt ;  and  the  stars  might  haye  chosen  a  taller 
man."  Then  the  king  laughed  again  ;  and  Morven  laughed 
too,  but  there  was  danger  in  the  mirth  of  the  son  of  Osslah. 

The  night  had  begun  to  wane,  and  the  inhabitants  of  Oes- 
trich  were  buried  in  deep  sleep,  when,  hark  !  a  sharp  voice  was 
heard  crying  out  in  the  streets  :  "  Woe,  woe  !  Awake,  ye  sons 
of  Oestrich — woe !  "  Then  forth,  wild,  haggard,  alarmed, 
spear  in  hand,  rushed  the  giant  sons  of  the  rugged  tribe,  and 
they  saw  a  man  on  a  height  in  the  middle  of  the  city,  shrieking 
"  Woe  !  "  and  it  was  Morven,  the  son  of  Osslah  !  And  he  said 
unto  them,  as  they  gathered  round  him,  "  Men  and  warriors, 
tremble  as  ye  hear.  The  star  of  the  west  hath  spoken  to  me, 
and  thus  said  the  star  :  '  Evil  shall  fall  upon  the  kingly  house 
of  Oestrich, — yea,  ere  the  morning  dawn  ;  wherefore,  gp  thou 
mourning  into  the  streets,  and  wake  the  inhabitants  to  woe  !' 
So  I  rose  and  did  the  bidding  of  the  star."  And  while  Morven 
was  yet  speaking,  a  servant  of  the  king's  house  ran  up  to  the 
crowd,  crying  loudly  :  "  The  king  is  dead  !  "  So  they  went 
into  the  palace  and  found  the  king  stark  upon  his  couch,  and 
his  huge  limbs  all  cramped  and  crippled  by  the  pangs  of  death, 
and  his  hands  clenched  as  if  in  menace  of  a  foe — the  Foe  of  all 
livjng  flesh  !  Then  fear  came  on  the  gazers,  and  they  looked 
on  Morven  with  a  deeper  awe  than  the  boldest  warrior  would 
have  called  forth ;  and  they  bore  him  back  to  the  council-hall 
of  the  wise  men,  wailing  and  clashing  their  arms  in  woe,  and 
shouting,  ever  and  anon  :  "  Honor  to  Morven  the  prophet !  " 
And  that  was  the  first  time  the  word  PROPHET  was  ever  used 
in  those  countries. 

At  noon,  on  the  third  day  from  the  king's  death,  Siror 
sought  Morven,  and  he  said,  "  Lo,  my  father  is  no  more,  and 
the  people  meet  this  evening  at  sunset  to  elect  his  successor, 


134  *HE    PILGRIMS   OF    THE    RHINE. 

and  the  warriors  and  the  young  men  will  surely  choose  my 
brother,  for  he  is  more  known  in  war.  Fail  me  not,  therefore." 

"  Peace,  boy  !  "  said  Morven  sternly  ;  "  nor  dare  to  ques- 
tion the  truth  of  the  gods  of  night." 

For  Morven  now  began  to  presume  on  his  power  among  the 
people,  and  to  speak  as  rulers  speak,  even  to  the  sons  of 
kings.  And  the  voice  silenced  the  fiery  Siror,  nor  dared  he 
to  reply. 

"  Behold,"  said  Morven,  taking  up  a  chaplet  of  colored 
plumes,  "  wear  this  on  thy  head,  and  put  on  a  brave  face,  for 
the  people  like  a  hopeful  spirit,  and  go  down  with  thy  brother 
to  the  place  where  the  new  king  is  to  be  chosen,  and  leave  the 
rest  to  the  stars.  But,  above  all  things,  forget  not  that  chaplet ; 
it  has  been  blessed  by  the  gods  of  night." 

The  prince  took  the  chaplet  and  returned  home. 

It  was  evening,  and  the  warriors  and  chiefs  of  the  tribe  were 
assembled  in  the  place  where  the  new  king  was  to  be  elected. 
And  the  voices  of  the  many  favored  Prince  Voltoch,  the  brother 
of  Siror,  for  he  had  slain  twelve  foemen  with  his  spear  ;  and 
verily,  in  those  days,  that  was  a  great  virtue  in  a  king. 

Suddenly  there  was  a  shout  in  the  streets,  and  the  people 
cried  out  :  "  Way  for  Morven  the  prophet,  the  prophet ! " 
For  the  people  held  the  son  of  Osslah  in  even  greater  respect 
than  did  the  chiefs.  Now,  since  he  had  become  of  note,  Mor- 
ven had  assumed  a  majesty  of  air  which  the  son  of  the  herds- 
man knew  not  in  his  earlier  days  ;  and  albeit  his  stature  was 
short,  and  his  limbs  halted,  yet  his  countenance  was  grave  and 
high.  He  only  of  the  tribe  wore  a  garment  that  swept  the 
ground,  and  his  head  was  bare,  and  his  long  black  hair  de- 
scended to  his  girdle,  and  rarely  was  change  or  human  passion 
seen  in  his  calm  aspect.  He  feasted  not,  nor  drank  wine,  nor 
was  his  presence  frequent  in  the  streets.  He  laughed  not, 
neither  did  he  smile,  save  when  alone  in  the  forest — and  then 
he  laughed  at  the  follies  of  his  tribe.  » 

So  he  walked  slowly  through  the  crowd,  neither  turningvto 
the  left  nor  to  the  right,  as  the  crowd  gave  way  ;  and  he  sup- 
ported his  steps  with  a  staff  of  the  knotted  pine. 

And  when  he  came  to  the  place  where  the  chiefs  were  met, 
and  the  two  princes  stood  in  the  centre,  he  bade  the  people 
around  him  proclaim  silence ;  then  mounting  on  a  huge  frag- 
ment o£  rock,  he  thus  spake  to  the  multitude  : 

"  Princes,  Warriors,  and  Bards  !  ye,  O  council  of  the  wise 
men  !  and  ye,  O  hunters  of  the  forests,  and  snarers  of  the 
fishes  of  the  streams  !  hearken  to  Morven  the  son  of  Osslah. 


THE   PILGRIMS  OF   THE   RHINE.  135 

Ye  know  that  I  am  lowly  of  race,  and  weak  of  limb  ;  but  did 
I  not  give  into  your  hands  the  tribe  of  Alrich,  and  did  ye  not 
slay  them  in  the  dead  of  night  with  a  great  slaughter  ?  Surely, 
ye  must  know  this  of  himself  did  not  the  herdsman's  son  ; 
surely  he  was  but  the  agent  of  the  bright  gods  that  love  the 
chi'dren  of  Oestrich.  Three  nights  since,  when  slumber  was 
on  the  earth,  was  not  my  voice  heard  in  the  streets  ?  Did  I 
not  proclaim  woe  to  the  kingly  house  of  Oestrich  ?  And  verily 
the  dark  arm  had  fallen  on  the  bosom  of  the  mighty,  that  is 
no  more.  Could  I  have  dreamed  this  thing  merely  in  a  dream, 
or  was  I  not  as  the  voice  of  the  bright  gods  that  watch  over 
the  tribes  of  Oestrich  ?  Wherefore,  O  men  and  chiefs  !  scorn 
not  the  son  of  Osslah,  but  listen  to  his  words  ;  for  are  they  not 
the  wisdom  of  the  stars?  Behold,  last  night,  I  sat  alone  in  the 
valley,  and  the  trees  were  hushed  around  and  not  a  breath 
stirred  ;  and  I  looked  upon  the  star  that  counsels  the  son  of 
Osslah  ;  and  I  said  :  '  Dread  conqueror  of  the  cloud  !  thou 
that  bathest  thy  beauty  in  the  streams  and  piercest  the  pine- 
boughs  with  thy  presence  ;  behold  thy  servant  grieved  because 
the  mighty  one  hath  passed  away,  and  many  foes  surround  the 
houses  of  my  brethren  ;  and  it  is  well  that  they  should  have  a 
king  valiant  and  prosperous  in  war,  the  cherished  of  the  stars. 
Wherefore,  O  star  !  as  thou  gavest  into  our  hands  the  warriors 
of  Alrich,  and  didst  warn  us  of  the  fall  of  the  oak  of  our  tribe, 
wherefore  I  pray  thee  give  unto  the  people  a  token  that  they 
may  choose  that  king  whom  the  gods  of  the  night  prefer  ! ' 
Then  a  low  voice,  sweeter  than  the  music  of  the  bard,  stole 
along  the  silence.  '  Thy  love  for  thy  race  is  grateful  to  the 
stars  of  night :  go  then,  son  of  Osslah,  and  "seek  the  meeting 
of  the  chiefs  and  the  people  to  choose  a  king,  and  tell  them 
not  to  scorn  thee  because  thou  art  slow  to  the  chase,  and  little 
known  in  war  ;  for  the  stars  give  thee  wisdom  as  a  recompense 
for  all.  Say  unto  the  people  that  as  the  wise  men  of  the 
council  shape  their  lessons  by  the  flight  of  birds,  so  by  the 
flight  of  birds  shall  a  token  be  given  unto  them,  and  they  shall 
choose  their  kings.  For,  saith  the  star  of  night,  the  birds  are 
the  children  of  the  winds,  they  pass  to  and  fro  along  the  ocean 
of  the  air,  and  visit  the  clouds  that  are  the  war-ships  of  the 
gods.  And  their  music  is  but  broken  melodies  which  they 
glean  from  the  harps  above.  Are  they  not  the  messengers  of 
the  storm  ?  Ere  the  stream  chafes  against  the  bank,  and  the 
rain  descends,  know  ye  not,  by  the  wail  of  birds  and  their  low 
circles  over  the  earth,  that  the  tempest  is  at  hand  ?  Where- 
fore, wisely  do  ye  deem  that  the  children  of  the  air  are  the  fit 


136  THE    PILGRIMS   OP    THE    RHINE, 

interpreters  between  the  sons  of  men  and  the  lords  of  the 
world  above.  Say  then  to  the  people  and  the  chiefs,  that  they 
shall  take,  from  among  the  doves  that  build  their  nests  in  the 
roof  of  the  palace,  a  white  dove,  and  they  shall  let  it  loose  in 
the  air,  and  verily  the  gods  of  the  night  shall  deem  the  dove 
as  a  prayer  coming  from  the  people,  and  they  shall  send  a 
messenger  to  grant  the  prayer  and  give  to'the  tribes  of  Oestrich 
a  king  worthy  of  themselves.' 

"  With  that  the  star  spoke  no  more." 

Then  the  friends  of  Voltoch  murmured  among  themselves, 
and  they  said  :  "  Shall  this  man  dictate  to  us  who  shall  be 
king  ?"  But  the  people  and  the  warriors  shouted  :  "  Listen 
to  the  star  ;  do  we  not  give'  or  deny  battle  according  as  the 
bird  flies — shall  we  not  by  the  same  token  choose  him  by 
whom  the  battle  should  be  led  ?  "  And  the  thing  seemed  natu- 
ral to  them,  for  it  was  after  the  custom  of  the  tribe.  Then 
they  took  one  of  the  doves  that  built  in  the  roof  of  the  palace, 
and  they  brought  it  to  the  spot  where  Morven  stood,  and  he, 
looking  up  to  the  stars  and  muttering  to  himself,  released  the 
bird. 

There  was  a  copse  of  trees  at  a  little  distance  from  the  spot, 
and  as  the  dove  ascended,  a  hawk  suddenly  rose  from  the 
copse  and  pursued  the  dove  ;  and  the  dove  was  terrified,  and 
soared  circling  high  above  the  crowd,  when  lo,  the  hawk,  pois- 
ing itself  one  moment  on  its  wings,  swooped  with  a  sudden 
swoop,  and  abandoning  its  prey,  alighted  on  the  plumed  head 
of  Siror. 

"Behold,"  cried  Morven  in  a  loud  voice,  "behold  your 
king  !  " 

"  Hail,  all  hail  the  king  !  "  shouted  the  people.  "  All  hail 
the  chosen  of  the  stars  ! " 

Then  Morven  lifted  his  right  hand,  and  the  hawk  left  the 
prince,  and  alighted  on  Morven's  shoulder.  "  Bird  of  the 
gods  !  "  said  he  reverently,  "  hast  thou  not  a  secret  message 
for  my  ear  ?  "  Then  the  hawk  put  its  beak  to  Morven's  ear, 
and  Morven  bowed  his  head  submissively  ;  and  the  hawk 
rested  with  Morven  from  that  moment  and  would  not  be  scared 
away.  And  Morven  said  :  "  The  stars  have  sent  me  this  bird, 
that,  in  the  day-time  when  I  see  them  not,  we  may  never  be 
without  a  councillor  in  distress." 

So  Siror  was  made  king,  and  Morven  the  son  of  Osslah  was 
constrained  by  the  king's  will  to  take  Orna  for  his  wife  ;  and 
the  people  and  the  chiefs  honored  Morven  the  prophet  above 
all  the  elders  of  the  tribe. 


THE    PILGRIMS    OF    THE    RHINE.  137 

One  day  Morven  said  unto  himself,  musing  :  "  Am  I  not 
already  equal  with  the  king  ?  Nay,  is  not  the  king  my  servant  ? 
Did  I  not  place  him  over  the  heads  of  his  brothers  ?  Am  I  not, 
therefore,  more  fit  to  reign  than  he  is  ?  Shall  I  not  push  him 
from  his  seat  ?  It  is  a  troublesome  and  stormy  office  to  reign 
over  the  wild  men  of  Oestrich,  to  feast  in  the  crowded  hall, 
and  to  lead  the  warriors  to  the  fray.  Surely  if  I  feasted  not, 
neither  went  out  to  war,  they  might  say,  this  is  no  king,  but  the 
cripple  Morven  ;  and  some  of  the  race  of  Siror  might  slay  me 
secretly.  But  can  I  not  be  greater  far  than  kings,  and  con- 
tinue to  choose  and  govern  them,  living  as  now  at  mine  own 
ease  ?  Verily  the  stars  shall  give  me  a  new  palace,  and  many 
subjects." 

Among  the  wise  men  was  Darvan  ;  and  Morven  feared  him, 
for  his  eye  often  sought  the  movements  of  the  son  of  Osslah. 

And  Morven  said  :  "  It  were  better  to  trust  this  man  than 
to  blind,  for  surely  I  want  a  helpmate  and  a  friend."  So  he 
said  to  the  wise  man  as  he  sat  alone  watching  the  setting  sun  ; 

"  It  seemeth  to  me,  O  Darvan  !  that  we  ought  to  build  a 
great  pile  in  honor  of  the  stars,  and  the  pile  should  be  more 
glorious  than  all  the  palaces  of  the  chiefs  and  the  palace  of 
the  king  ;  for  are  not  the  stars  our  masters  ?  And  thou  and  I 
should  be  the  chief  dwellers  in  this  new  palace,  and  we  would 
serve  the  gods  of  night  and  fatten  their  altars  with  the  choicest 
of  the  herd,  and  the  freshest  of  the  fruits  of  the  earth." 

And  Darvan  said  :  "  Thou  speakest  as  becomes  the  servant 
of  the  stars.  But  will  the  people  help  to  build  the  pile,  for 
they  are  a  warlike  race  and  they  love  not  toil  ? " 

And  Morven  answered  :  "Doubtless  the  stars  will  ordain 
the  work  to  be  done.  Fear  not." 

"  In  truth  thou  art  a  wondrous  man,  thy  words  ever  come  to 
pass,"  answered  Darvan  ;  "  and  I  wish  thou  wouldest  teach 
me,  friend,  the  language  of  the  stars." 

"  Assuredly  if  thou  servest  me,  thou  shall  know,"  answered 
the  proud  Morven  ;  and  Darvan  was  secretly  wroth  that  the 
son  of  the  herdsman  should  command  the  service  of  an  elder 
and  a  chief. 

And  when  Morven  returned  to  his  wife  he  found  her  weep- 
ing much.  Now  she  loved  the  son  of  Osslah  with  an  exceed- 
ing love,  for  he  was  not  savage  and  fierce  as  the  men  she  had 
known,  and  she  was  proud  of  his  fame  among  the  tribe  ;  and 
he  took  her  in  his  arms  and  kissed  her,  and  asked  her  why  she 
wept.  Then  she  told  him  that  her  brother  the  king  had  visited 
her  and  had  spoken  bitter  words  of  Morven  ;  "  He  taketh 


138  THE    PILGRIMS   OF    THE    RHINE. 

from  me  the  affection  of  my  people,"  said  Siror,  "  and  blindettj 
them  with  lies.  And  since  he  hath  made  me  king,  what  if  he 
take  my  kingdom  from  me  ?  Verily  a  new  tale  of  the  stars 
might  undo  the  old."  And  the  king  had  ordered  her  to  keep 
watch  oh  Morven's  secrecy,  and  to  see  whether  truth  was  in 
him  when  he  boasted  of  his  commune  with  the  Powers  of  Night. 

But  Orna  loved  Morven  better  than  Siror,  therefore  she  told 
her  husband  all. 

And  Morven  resented  the  king's  ingratitude,  and  was 
troubled  much,  for  a  king  is  a  powerful  foe  ;  but  he  comforted 
Orna,  and  bade  her  dissemble,  and  complain  also  of  him  to 
her  brother,  so  that  he  might  confide  to  her  unsuspectingly 
whatsoever  he  might  design  against  Morven. 

There  was  a  cave  by  Morven's  house  in  which  he  kept  the 
sacred  hawk,  and  wherein  he  secretly  trained  and  nurtured 
other  birds  against  future  need,  and  the  door  of  the  cave  was 
always  barred.  And  one  day  he  was  thus  engaged  when  he 
beheld  a  chink  in  the  wall,  that  he  had  never  noted  before,  and 
the  sun  came  playfully  in  ;  and  while  he  looked  he  perceived 
the  sunbeam  was  darkened,  and  presently  he  saw  a  human  face 
peering  in  through  the  chink.  And  Morven  trembled,  for  he 
knew  he  had  been  watched.  He  ran  hastily  from  the  cave, 
but  the  spy  had  disappeared  amongst  the  trees,  and  Morven 
went  straight  to  the  chamber  of  Darvan  and  sat  himself  down. 
And  Darvan  did  not  return  home  till  late,  and  he  started  and 
turned  pale  when  he  saw  Morven.  But  Morven  greeted  him 
as  a  brother,  and  bade  him  to  a  feast,  which,  for  the  first  time, 
he  proposed  giving  at  the  full  of  the  moon,  in  honor  of  the 
stars.  And  going  out  of  Darvan's  chamber  he  returned  to  his 
wife,  and  bade  her  rend  her  hair,  and  go  at  the  dawn  of  day 
to  the  king  her  brother,  and  complain  bitterly  of  Morven's 
treatment,  and  pluck  the  black  plans  from  the  breast  of  the 
king.  "  For  surely,"  said  he,  "  Darvan  hath  lied  to  thy 
brother,  and  some  evil  waits  me  that  I  would  fain  know." 

So  the  next  morning  Orna  sought  the  king,  and  she  said  : 
"  The  herdsman's  son  hath  reviled  me,  and  spoken  harsh  words 
to  me  ;  shall  I  not  be  avenged  ? " 

Then  the  king  stamped  his  feet  and  shook  his  mighty  sword. 
"  Surely  thou  shalt  be  avenged,  for  I  have  learned  from  one  of 
the  elders  that  which  convinceth  me  that  the  man  hath  lied  to 
the  people,  and  the  base-born  shall  surely  die.  Yea,  the  first 
time  that  he  goeth  alone  into  the  forest  my  brother  and  I  will 
fall  upon  him,  and  smite  him  to  the  death."  And  with  this 
comfort  Siror  dismissed  Orna. 


THE    PILGRIMS   OF    THE    RHINE.  JJ9 

And  Orna  flung  herself  at  the  feet  of  her  husband.  "  Fly 
now,  O  ray  beloved  ! — fly  into  the  forests  afar  from  my  breth- 
ren, or  surely  the  sword  cf  Siror  will  end  thy  days." 

Then  the  son  of  Osslah  folded  his  arms,  and  seemed  buried 
in  black  thoughts  ;  nor  did  he  heed  the  voice  of  Orna,  until 
again  and  again  she  had  implored  him  to  fly. 

"Fly!"  he  said  at  length.  "  Nay,  I  was  doubting  what 
punishment  the  stars  should  pour  down  upon  our  foe.  Let 
warriors  fly.  Morven  the  prophet  conquers  by  arms  mightier 
than  the  sword." 

Nevertheless  Morven  was  perplexed  in  his  mind,  and  knew 
not  how  to  save  himself  from  the  vengeance  of  the  king.  Now, 
while  he  was  musing  hopelessly,  he  heard  a  roar  of  waters  ; 
and  behold  the  river,  for  it  was  now  the  end  of  autumn,  had 
burst  its  bounds,  and  was  rushing  along  the  valley  to  the 
houses  of  the  city.  And  now  the  men  of  the  tribe,  and  the 
women,  and  the  children,  came  running,  and  with  shrieks  to 
Morven's  house,  crying  :  {<  Behold  the  river  has  burst  upon 
us  !  Save  us,  O  ruler  of  the  stars  !  " 

Then  the  sudden  thought  broke  upon  Morven,  and  he  re- 
solved to  risk  his  fate  upon  one  desperate  scheme. 

And  he  came  out  from  the  house  calm  and  sad,  and  he  said, 
"  Ye  know  not  what  ye  ask  ;  I  cannot  save  ye  from  this  peril : 
ye  have  brought  it  on  yourselves." 

And  they  cried  :  "How?  O  son  of  Osslah! — we  are  igno- 
rant of  our  crime." 

And  he  answered  :  "  Go  down  to  the  king's  palace  and  wait 
before  it,  and  surely  I  will  follow  ye,  and  ye  shall  learn  where- 
fore ye  have  incurred  this  punishment  from  the  gods."  Then 
the  crowd  rolled  murmuring  back,  as  a  receding  sea  ;  and 
when  it  was  gone  from  the  place,  Morven  went  alone  to  the 
house  of  Darvan,  which  was  next  his  own  :  and  Darvan  was 
greatly  terrified,  for  he  was  of  a  great  age,  and  had  no  chil- 
dren, neither  friends,  and  he  feared  that  he  could  not  of  him- 
self escape  the  waters. 

And  Morven  said  to  him  soothingly  :  "  Lo,  the  people  love 
me,  and  I  will  see  that  thou  art  saved  ;  for  verily  thou  hast 
been  friendly  to  me,  and  done  me  much  service  with  the 
king." 

And  as  he  thus  spake,  Morven  opened  the  door  of  the  house 
and  looked  forth,  and  saw  that  they  were  quite  alone  ;  then 
he  seized  the  old  man  by  the  throat,  and  ceased  not  his  gripe 
till  he  was  quite  dead.  And  leaving  the  body  of  the  elder  on 
the  floor,  Morven  stole  from  the  house  and  shut  the  gate. 


140  THE    PILGRIMS   OF    THE    RHINE. 

And  as  he  was  going  to  his  cave  he  mused  a  little  while,  when, 
hearing  the  mighty  roar  of  the  waves  advancing,  and  far  off 
the  shrieks  of  women,  he  lifted  up  his  head,  and  said  proudly  : 
"  No  !  in  this  hour  terror  alone  shall  be  my  slave  ;  I  will  use 
no  art  save  the  power  of  my  soul."  So,  leaning  on  his  pine- 
staff,  he  strode  down  to  the  palace.  And  it  was  now  evening, 
and  many  of  the  men  held  torches,  that  they  might  see  each 
other's  faces  in  the  universal  fear.  Red  flashed  the  quivering 
flames  on  the  dark  robes  and  pale  front  of  Morven  ;  and  he 
seemed  mightier  than  the  rest,  because  his  face  alone  was  calm 
amidst  the  tumult.  And  louder  and  hoarser  came  the  roar  of 
the  waters  ;  and  swift  rushed  the  shades  of  night  over  the 
hastening  tide. 

And  Morven  said  in  a  stern  voice:  "  Where  is  the  king  ; 
and  wherefore  is  he  absent  from  his  people  in  the  hour  of 
dread  ?"  Then  the  gate  of  the  palace  opened,  and,  behold, 
Siror  was  sitting  in  the  hall  by  the  vast  pine-fire,  and  his  brother 
by  his  side,  and  his  chiefs  around  him  :  for  they  would  not 
deign  to  come  amongst  the  crowd  at  the  bidding  of  the  herds- 
man's son. 

Then  Morven,  standing  upon  a  rock  above  the  heads  of  the 
people  (the  same  rock  whereon  he  had  proclaimed  the  king), 
thus  spake  : 

"  Ye  desired  to  know,  O  sons  of  Oestrich  !  wherefore  the 
river  hath  burst  its  bounds,  and  the  peril  hath  come  upon  you. 
Learn,  then,  that  the  stars  resent  as  the  foulest  of  human 
crimes  an  insult  to  their  servants  and  delegates  below.  Ye 
are  all  aware  of  the  manner  of  life  of  Morven,  whom  ye  have 
surnamed  the  Prophet !  He  harms  not  man  nor  beast ;  he 
lives  alone  ;  and, -far  from  the  wild  joys  of  the  warrior  tribe, 
he  worships  in  awe- and  fear  the  Powers  of  Night.  So  is  he 
able  to  advise  ye  of  the  coming  danger — so  is  he  able  to  save 
ye  from  the  foe.  Thus  are  your  huntsmen  swift  and  your 
warriors  bold  ;  and  thus  do  your  cattle  bring  forth  their  young, 
and  the  earth  its  fruits.  What  think  ye,  and  what  do  ye  ask 
to  hear?  Listen,  men  of  Oestrich  !  They  have  laid  snares 
for  my  life ;  and  the*re  are  amongst  you  those  who  have  whet- 
ted the  sword  against  the  bosom  that  is  only  filled  with  love 
foryou  all.  Therefore  have  the  stern  lords  of  heaven  loosened 
the  chains  of  the  river — therefore  doth  this  evil  menace  ye. 
Neither  will  it  pass  away  until  they  who  dug  the  pit  for  the 
servant  of  the  stars  are  buried  in  the  same," 

Then,  by  the  red  torches,  the  faces  of  the  men  looked  fierce 
and  threatening  ;  &nd,  ten  thousand  veices  shouted,  forth  : 


THE    PILGRIMS    OF    THE    RHINE.  14! 

"  Name  them  who  conspired  against  thy  life,  O  holy  prophet ! 
and  surely  they  shall  be  torn  limb  from  limb." 

And  Morven  turned  aside,  and  they  saw  that  he  wept  bit- 
terly ;  and  he  said  : 

"  Ye  have  asked  me,  and  I  have  answered  :  but  now  scarce 
will  ye  believe  the  foe  that  I  have  provoked  against  me  ;  and 
by  the  heavens  themselves  I  swear,  that  if  my  death  would 
satisfy  their  fury,  nor  bring  down  upon  yourselves,  and  your 
children's  children,  the  anger  of  the  throned  stars,  gladly 
would  I  give  my  bosom  to  the  knife.  Yes,"  he  cried,  lifting 
up  his  voice,  and  pointing  his  shadowy  arm  towards  the  hall 
where  the  king  sat  by  the  pine-fire — "  Yes,  thou  whom  by  my 
voice  the  stars  chose  above  thy  brother — yes,  Siror,  the  guilty 
one  !  take  thy  sword,  and  come  hither — strike,  if  thou  hast  the 
heart  to  strike,  the  Prophet  of  the  Gods  !  " 

The  king  started  to  his  feet,  and  the  crowd  were  hushed  in 
a  shuddering  silence.  . 

Morven  resumed  : 

"  Know  then,  O  men  of  Oestrich  !  that  Siror,  and  Voltoch  his 
brother,  and  Darvan  the  elder  of  the  wise  men,  have  purposed 
to  slay  your  prophet,  even  at  such  hour  as  when  alone  he 
seeks  the  shade  of  the  forest  to  devise  new  benefits  for  you. 
Let  the  king  deny  it,  if  he  can  !  " 

Then  Voltoch,  of  the  giant  limbs,  strode  forth  from  the  hall, 
and  his  spear  quivered  in  his  hand. 

"  Rightly  hast  thou  spoken,  base  son  of  my  father's  herds- 
man !  and  for  thy  sins  shalt  thou  surely  die ;  for  thou  liest 
when  thou  speakest  of  thy  power  with  the  stars,  and  thou 
laughest  at  the  folly  of  them  who  hear  thee  :  wherefore  put 
him  to  death." 

Then  the  chiefs  in  the  hall  clashed  their  arms,  and  rushed 
forth  to  slay  the  son  of  Osslah. 

But  he,  stretching  his  unarmed  hands  on  high,  exclaimed  : 
"  Hear  him,  O  dread  ones  of  the  night ! — hark  how  he  blas- 
phemeth  !  " 

Then  the  crowd  took  up  the  word,  and  cried  :  "  He  blas- 
phemeth — he  blasphemeth  against  the  prophet  !  " 

But  the  king  and  the  chiefs  who  hated  Morven,  because  of 
his  power  with  the  people,  rushed  into  the  crowd  ;  and  the 
crowd  were  irresolute,  nor  knew  they  how  to  act,  for  never  yet 
had  they  rebelled  against  their  chiefs,  and  they  feared  alike  the 
prophet  and  thejdng. 

And  Siror  cried  :  "  Summon  Darvan  to  us,  for  he  hath 
watched  the  steps  of  Morven,  and  he  shall  lift  the  veil  from 


142  THE    PILGRIMS    OF    THE    RHINE. 

my  people's  eyes."  Then  three  of  the  swift  of  foot  started 
forth  to  the  house  of  Darvan. 

And  Morven  cried  out  with  a  loud  voice  :  "  Hark  !  thus 
saith  the  star  who,  now  riding  through  yonder  cloud,  breaks 
forth  upon  my  eyes  :  '  For  the  lie  that  the  elder  hath  uttered 
against  my  servant,  the  curse  of  the  stars  shall  fall  upon  him. 
Seek,  and  as  ye  find  him  so  may  ye  find  ever  the  foes  of  Mor- 
ven and  the  gods  !  ' ' 

A  chill  and  an  icy  fear  fell  over  the  crowd,  and  even  the 
cheek  of  Siror  grew  pale  ;  and  Morven,  erect  and  dark  above 
the  waving  torches,  stood  motionless  with  folded  arms.  And 
hark — far  and  fast  came  on  the  war-steeds  of  the  wave — the 
people  heard  them  marching  to  the  land,  and  tossing  their 
white  manes  in  the  roaring  wind. 

"  Lo,  as  ye  listen,"  said  Morven  calmly,  "  the  river  sweeps 
on.  Haste,  for  the  gods  will  have  a  victim,  be  it  your  prophet 
or  your  king." 

"Slave!  "  shouted  Siror,  and  his  spear  left  his  hand, and  far 
above  the  heads  of  the  crowd  sped  hissing  beside  the  dark  form 
of  Morven,  and  rent  the  trunk  of  the  oak  behind.  Then  the 
people,  wroth  at  the  danger  of  their  beloved  seer,  uttered  a  wild 
yell,  and  gathered  round  him  with  brandished  swords,  facing 
their  chieftains  and  their  king.  But  at  that  instant,  ere  the  war 
had  broken  forth  among  the  tribe,  the  three  warrors  returned, 
and  they  bore  Darvan  on  their  shoulders,  and  laid  him  at  the  feet 
of  the  king,  and  they  said  tremblingly  :  "Thus  found  we  the 
elder  in  the  centre  of  his  own  hall."  And  the  people  saw  that 
Darvan  was  a  corpse,  and  that  the  prediction  of  Morven  was 
thus  verified.  "  So  perish  the  enemies  of  Morven  and  the 
Stars  !  "  cried  the  son  of  Osslah.  And  the  people  echoed  the 
cry.  Then  the  fury  of  Siror  was  at  its  height,  and  waving 
his  sword  above  his  head  he  plunged  into  the  crowd  :  "  Thy 
blood,  baseborn,  or  mine  !  " 

"  So  be  it !  "  answered  Morven,  quailing  not.  "  People, 
smite  the  blasphemer !  Hark  how  the  river  pours  down 
upon  your  children  and  your  hearths  !  On,  on,  or  ye 
perish  ! " 

And  Siror  fell,  pierced  by  five  hundred  spears. 

"  Smite  !  smite  !  "  cried  Morven,  as  the  chiefs  of  the  royal 
house  gathered  round  the  king.  And  the  clash  of  swords,  and 
the  gleam  of  -spears,  and  the  cries  of  the  dying,  and  the  yell 
of  the  trampling  people,  mingled  with  the  roar  of  the  elements, 
and  the  voices  of  the  rushing  wave. 

Three  hundred  of  the  chiefs  perished  that  night  by  the 


THE    PILGRIMS    OF    THE    RHINE.  143 

swords  of  their  own  tribe.  And  the  last  cry  of  th/e  victors 
was  :  "  Morven  the  prophet — Morven  the  king  !" 

And  the  son  of  Osslah,  seeing  the  waves  now  spreading 
over  the  valley,  led  Orna  his  wife,  and  the  men  of  Oestrich, 
their  women,  and  their  children,  to  a  high  mount,  where  they 
waited  the  dawning  sun.  But  Orna  sat  apart  and  wept  bitterly, 
for  her  brothers  were  no  more,  and  her  race  had  perished  from 
the  earth.  And  Morven  sought  to  comfort  her  in  vain. 

When  the  morning  rose,  they  saw  that  the  river  had  over- 
spread the  greater  part  of  the  city,  and  now  stayed  its  course 
among  the  hollows  of  the  vale.  Then  Morven  said  to  the 
people:  ''The  star-kings  are  avenged,  and  their  wrath  ap- 
peased. Tarry  only  here  until  the  waters  have  melted  into 
the  crevices  of  the  soil."  And  on  the  fourth  day  they  returned 
to  the  city,  and  no  man  dared  to  name  another,  save  Morven, 
as  the  king. 

But  Morven  retired  into  his  cave  and  mused  deeply;  and 
then  assembling  the  people,  he  gave  them  new  laws ;  and  he 
made  them  build  a  mighty  temple  in  honor  of  the  stars,  and 
made  them  heap  within  it  all  that  the  tribe  held  most  precious. 
And  he  took  unto  him  fifty  children  from  the  most  famous  of 
the  tribe  ;  and  he  took  also  ten  from  among  the  men  who  had 
served  him  best,  and  he  ordained  that  they  should  serve  the 
stars  in  the  great  temple  :  and  Morven  was  their  chief.  And 
he  put  away  the  crown  they  pressed  upon  him,  and  he  chose 
from  among  the  elders  a  new  king.  And  he  ordained  that 
henceforth  the  servants  only  of  the  stars  in  the  great  temple 
should  elect  the  king  and  the  rulers,  and  hold  council,  and 
proclaim  war  :  but  he  suffered  the  king  to  feast,  and  to  hunt, 
and  to  make  merry  in  the  banquet-halls.  And  Morven  built 
altars  in  the  temple,  and  was  the  first  who,  in  the  North, 
sacrificed  the  beast  and  the  bird,  and  afterwards  human  flesh, 
upon  the  altars.  And  he  drew  auguries  from  the  entrails  of 
the  victim,  and  made  schools  for  the  science  of  the  prophet  ; 
and  Morven's  piety  was  the  wonder  of  the  tribe,  in  that  he  re- 
fused to  be  a  king.  And  Morven  the  high  priest  was  ten  thou- 
sand times  mightier  than  the  king.  He  taught  the  people  to 
till  the  ground,  and  to  sow  the  herb  ;  and  by  his  wisdom,  and 
the  valor  that  his  prophecies  instilled  into  men,  he  conquered 
all  the  neighboring  tribes.  And  the  sons  of  Oestrich  spread 
themselves  over  a  mighty  empire,  and  with  them  spread  the 
name  and  the  laws  of  Morven.  And  in  every  province  which 
he  conquered,  he  ordered  them  to  build  a  temple  to  the  stars. 

But  a  heavy  sorrow  fell  upon  the  years  of  Morven.     The 


144  THE    PILGRIMS    OF    THE    RHINE. 

sister  of  Siror  bowed  down  her  head  and  survived  not  long  the 
slaughter  of  her  race.  And  she  left  Morven  childless.  And 
he  mourned  bitterly  and  as  one  distraught,  for  her  only  in  the 
world  had  his  heart  the  power  to  love.  And  he  sat  down  and 
covered  his  face,  saying  : 

"  l,o  !  I  have  toiled  and  travailed  ;  and  never  before  in  the 
•world  did  man  conquer  what  I  have  conquered.  Verily  the 
empire  of  the  iron  thews  and  the  giant  limbs  is  no  more  !  ] 
have  founded  a  new  power,  that  henceforth  shall  sway  the 
lands — the  empire  of  a  plotting  brain  and  a  commanding  mind. 
But,  behold  !  my  fate  is  barren,  and  I  feel  already  that  it  will 
grow  neither  fruit  nor  tree  as  a  shelter  to  mine  old  age. 
Desolate  and  lonely  shall  I  pass  unto  my  grave,  O  Orna  !  my 
beautiful  !  my  loved  !  none  were  like  unto  thee,  and  to  thy 
love  do  I  owe  my  glory  and  my  life  !  Would  for  thy  sake,  O 
sweet  birds  that  nestled  in  the  dark  cavern  of  my  heart — would 
for  thy  sake  that  thy  brethren  had  been  spared,  for  verily  with 
my  life  would  I  have  purchased  thine  !  Alas  !  only  when  I 
lost  thee  did  I  find  that  thy  love  was  dearer  to  me  than  the 
fear  of  others  !  "  And  Morven  mourned  night  and  day,  and 
none  might  comfort  him. 

But  from  that  time  forth  he  gave  himself  solely  up  to  the 
cares  of  his  calling  ;  and  his  nature  and  his  affections,  and 
whatever  there  was  yet  left  soft  in  him,  grew  hard  like  stone  ; 
and  he  was  a  man  without  love,  and  he  forbade  love  and  mar- 
riage to  the  priest. 

Now,  in  his  latter  years,  there  arose  other  prophets  ;  for  the 
world  had  grown  wiser  even  by  Morven's  wisdom,  and  some 
did  say  unto  themselves  :  "  Behold  Morven,  the  herdsman's 
son,  is  a  king  of  kings  :  this  did  the  stars  tor  their  servant ; 
shall  we  not  also  be  servants  to  the  star  ?" 

And  they  wore  black  garments  like  Morven,  and  went  about 
prophesying  of  what  the  stars  foretold  them.  And  Morven 
was  exceeding  wroth  ;  for  he,  more  than  other  men,  knew  that 
the  prophets  lied  ;  wherefore  he  went  forth  against  them  with 
the  ministers  of  the  temple,  and  he  took  them,  and  burned 
them  by  a  slow  fire  :  for  thus  said  Morven  to  the  people  :  "A 
true  prophet  hath  honor,  but  I  only  am  a  true  prophet  ;  to  all 
false  prophets  there  shall  be  surely  death." 

And  the  people  applauded  the  piety  of  the  son  of  Osslah. 

And  Morven  educated  the  wisest  of  the  children  in  the 
mysteries  of  the  temple,  so  that  they  grew  up  to  succeed  him 
worthily. 

And  he  died  full  of  years  and  honor  ;  and  they  carved  his 


THE   HLGRtMS   OF   THE   RHINE.  145 

effigy  on  a  mighty  stone  before  the  temple,  and  the  effigy  en- 
dured for  a  thousand  ages,  and  whoso  looked  on  it  trembled  ; 
for  the  face  was  calm  with  the  calmness  of  unspeakable  awe  ! 
And  Morven  was  the  first  mortal  of  the  North  that  made 
Religion  the  stepping-stone  to  Power.  Of  a  surety  Morven 
was  a  great  man  ! 

It  was  the  last  night  of  the  old  year,  and  the  stars  sat,  each 
upon  his  ruby  throne,  and  watched  with  sleepless  eyes  upon 
the  world.  The  night  was  dark  and  troubled,  the  dread  winds 
were  abroad,  and  fast  and  frequent  hurried  the  clouds  beneath 
the  thrones  of  the  kings  of  night.  And  ever  and  anon  fiery 
meteors  flashed  along  the  depths  of  heaven,  and  were  again 
swallowed  up  in  the  grave  of  darkness. .  But  far  below  his 
brethren  and  with  a  lurid  haze  around  his  orb,  sat  the  discon- 
tented star  that  had  watched  over  the  hunters  of  the  North. 

And  on  the  lowest  abyss  of  space  there  was  spread  a  thick 
and  mighty  gloom  from  which,  as  from  a  caldron,  rose  columns 
of  wreathing  smoke  ;  and  still,  when  the  great  winds  rested 
for  an  instant  on  their  paths,  voices  of  woe  and  laughter, 
mingled  with  shrieks,  were  heard  booming  from  the  abyss  to 
the  upper  air. 

And  now,  in  the  middest  night,  a  vast  figure  rose  slowly 
from  the  abyss,  and  its  wings  threw  blackness  over  the  world. 
High  upward  to  the  throne  of  the  discontented  star  sailed  the 
fearful  shape,  and  the  star  trembled  on  his  throne  when  the 
form  stood  before  him  face  to  face. 

And  the  shape  said,  "  Hail,  brother  ! — all  hail !  " 

"  I  know  thee  not,"  answered  the  star  :  "  thou  art  not  the 
archangel  that  visitest  the  kings  of  night." 

And  the  shape  laughed  loud.  "  I  am  the  fallen  star  of  the 
morning  !  I  am  Lucifer,  thy  brother  !  Hast  thou  not,  O 
sullen  king  !  served  me  and  mine  ?  And  hast  thou  not  wrested 
the  earth  from  thy  Lord  who  sittest  above,  and  given  it  to  me, 
by  darkening  the  souls  of  men  with  the  religion  of  fear  ? 
Wherefore  come,  brother,  come  ;  thou  hast  a  throne  prepared 
beside  my  own  in  the  fiery  gloom — Come  !  The  heavens  are 
no  more  for  thee." 

Then  the  star  rose  from  his  throne,  and  descended  to  the 
side  of  Lucifer.  For  ever  hath  the  spirit  of  discontent  had 
sympathy  with  the  soul  of  pride.  And  they  sank  slowly  down 
to  the  gulf  of  gloom. 

It  was  the  first  night  of  the  new  year,  and  the  stars  sat  each 
on  his  ruby  throne,  and  watched  with  sleepless  eyes  upon  th«i 


146  THE   PILOR-iMS  OP   THE 

World.  But  gofrow"  dimmed  the  bright  faces  of  the  kings  of 
night,  for  they  mourned  *in  silence  and  in  fear  for  a  fallen 
brother, 

And  the  gates  of  the  heaven  of  heavens  flew  open  with  a 
golden  sound,  and  the  swift  archangel  fled  down  on  his  silent 
wings  ;  and  the  archangel  gave  to  each  of  the  stars,  as  before, 
the  message  of  his  Lord  ;  and  to  each  star  was  his  appointed 
charge.  And  when  the  heraldry  seemed  done  there  came  a 
laugh  from  the  abyss  of  gloom,  and  half-way  from  the  gulf  rose 
the  lurid  shape  of  Lucifer  the  fiend  ! 

"  Thou  countest  thy  flock  ill,  O  radiant  shepherd  !  Be- 
hold !  one  star  is  missing  from  the  three  thousand  and  ten  !  " 

"  Back  to  thy  gulf,  false  Lucifer  ! — the  throne  of  thy  brother 
hath  been  filled." 

And,  lo  !  as  the  archangel  spake,  the  stars  beheld  a  young 
and  all-lustrous  stranger  on  the  throne  of  the  erring  star  ;  and 
his  face  was  so  soft  to  look  upon,  that  the  dimmest  of  human 
eyes  might  have  gazed  upon  its  splendor  unabashed  :  but  the 
dark  fiend  alone  was  dazzled  by  its  lustre,  and,  with  a  yell  that 
shook  the  flaming  pillars  of  the  universe,  he  plunged  backward 
into  the  gloom. 

Then,  far  and  sweet  from  the  arch  unseen,  came  forth  the 
voice  of  God  : 

"  Behold  !  on  the  throne  of  the  discontented  star  sits  the 
star  of  Hope  ;  and  he  that  breathed  into  mankind  the  religion 
of  Fear  hath  a  successor  in  him  who  shall  teach  earth  the  relig- 
ion of  Love  !  " 

And  evermore  the  star  of  Fear  dwells  with  Lucifer,  and  the 
star  of  Love  keeps  vigil  in  heaven  ! 


CHAPTER  XX. 

GELNHAttSEN. — THE  POWER  OF  LOVE  IN  SANCTIFIED  PLACES.— 
A  PORTRAIT  OF  FREDERICK  BARBAROSSA. — THE  AMBITION 
OF  MEN  FINDS  NO  ADEQUATE  SYMPATHY  IN  WOMEN. 

•"  You  made  me  tremble  for  you  more  than  once,"  said  Ger- 
trude to  the  student ;  "  I  feared  you  were  about  to  touch  upon 
ground  really  sacred,  but  your  end  redeemed  all." 

"  The  false  religion  always  tries  to  counterfeit  the  garb,  the 
language,  the  aspect,  of  the  true,"  answered  the  German  : 
"for  that  reason  I  purposely  suffered  my  tale  to  occasion  that 
very  fear  and  anxiety  you  speak  of,  conscious  that  the  most 
scrupulous  would  be  contented  when  the  whole  was  finished." 


THE    PILGRIMS   OF    THE   RHINE.  147 

This  German  was  one  of  a  new  school,  of  which  England 
as  yet  knows  nothing.  We  shall  see,4iereafter,  what  it  will 
produce. 

The  student  left  them  at  Friedberg,  and  our  travellers  pro- 
ceeded to  Gelnhausen — a  spot  interesting  to  lovers  ;  for  here 
Frederick  the  First  was  won  by  the  beauty  of  Gela,  and,  in  the 
midst  of  an  island  vale,  he  built  the  Imperial  Palace,  in  honor 
to  the  lady  of  his  love.  The  spot  is,  indeed,  well  chosen  of 
itself :  the  mountains  of  the  Rhinegebiirg  close  it  in  with  the 
green  gloom  of  woods,  and  the  glancing  waters  of  the  Kinz. 

l<  Still,  wherever  we  go,"  said  Trevylyan,  "we  find  all  tra- 
dition is  connected  with  love  ;  and  history,  for  that  reason, 
hallows  less  than  romance." 

"  It  is  singular,"  said  Vane,  moralizing,  "  that  love  makes  but 
a  small  part  of  our  actual  lives,  but  is  yet  the  master-key  to 
our  sympathies.  The  hardest  of  us,  who  laugh  at  the  passion 
when  they  see  it  palpably  before  them,  are  arrested  by  some 
dim  tradition  of  its  existence  in  the  past.  It  is  as  if  life  had 
few  opportunities  of  bringing  out  certain  qualities  within  us, 
so  that  they  always  remain  untold  and  dormant,  susceptible  to 
thought,  but  deaf  to  action." 

"  You  refine  and  mystify  too  much,"  said  Trevylyan,  smil- 
ing ;  "  none  of  us  have  any  faculty,  any  passion,  uncalled 
forth,  if  we  have  really  loved,  though  but  for  a  day." 

Gertrude  smiled,  and  drawing  her  arm  within  his,  Trevylyan 
left  Vane  to  philosophize  on  passion — a  fit  occupation  for  one 
who  had  never  felt  it. 

"  Here  let  us  pause,"  said  Trevylyan  afterwards,  as  they 
visited  the  remains  of  the  ancient  palace,  and  the  sun  glittered 
on  the  scene,  "  to  recall  the  old  chivalric  day  of  the  gallant 
Barbarossa  ;  let  us  suppose  him  commencing  the  last  great 
action  of  his  life  ;  let  us  picture  him  as  setting  out  for  the 
Holy  Land.  Imagine  him  issuing  from  those  walls  on  his 
white  charger  ;  his  fiery  eye  somewhat  dimmed  by  years,  and 
his  hair  blanched  ;  but  nobler  from  the  impress  of  time  itself ; 
the  clang  of  arms  ;  the  cramp  of  steeds  ;  banners  on  high  ; 
music  pealing  from  hill  to  hill  ;  the  red  cross  and  the  nodding 
plume  ;  the  sun,  as  now  glancing  on  yonder  trees  ;  and  thence 
reflected  from  the  burnished  arms  of  the  Crusaders — but, 
Gela—" 

"  Ah,"  said  Gertrude,  "  she  must  be  no  more  ;  for  she  would 
have  outlived  her  beauty,  and  have  found  that  glory  had  now 
no  rival  in  his  breast.  Glory  consoles  men  for  the  death  of 
the  loved  ;  but  glory  is  infidelity  to  the  living." 


148  THE    PILGRIMS   OF    THE   RHINE. 

"  Nay,  not  so,  dearest  Gertrude,"  said  Trevylyan  quickly ; 
"for  my  darling  dream  of  Fame  is  the  hope  of  laying  its 
honors  at  your  feet !  And  if  ever,  in  future  years,  I  should 
rise  above  the  herd,  I  should  only  ask  if  your  step  were  proud, 
and  your  heart  elated." 

"  I  was  wrong,"  said  Gertrude,  with  tears  in  her  eyes  ;  "  and, 
for  your  sake,  I  can  be  ambitious." 

Perhaps  there,  too,  she  was  mistaken  ;  for  one  of  the  com- 
mon disappointments  of  the  heart  is,  that  women  have  so 
rarely  a  sympathy  in  our  better  and  higher-  aspirings.  Their 
ambition  is  not  for  great  things ;  they  cannot  understand  that 
desire  "which  scorns  delight,  and  loves  laborious  days."  If 
they  love  us,  they  usually  exact  too  much.  They  are  jealous 
of  the  ambition  to  which  we  sacrifice  so  largely,  and  which 
divides  us  from  them  ;  and  they  leave  the  stern  passion  of 
great  minds  to  the  only  solitude  which  affection  cannot  share. 
To  aspire  is  to  be  alone  ! 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

VIEW    OF    EHRENBREITSTEIN. — A    NEW    ALARM    IN    GERTRUDE'S 
HEALTH. TRARBACH. 

ANOTHER  time  our  travellers  proceeded  from  Coblentz  to 
Treves,  following  the  course  of  the  Moselle.  They  stopped 
on  the  opposite  bank  below  the  bridge  that  unites  Coblentz 
with  the  Petersberg,  to  linger  over  the  superb  view  of  Ehren- 
breitstein  which  you  may  there  behold. 

It  was  one  of  those  calm  noonday  scenes  which  impress 
upon  us  their  own  bright  and  voluptuous  tranquillity.  There 
stood  the  old  herdsman  leaning  on  his  staff,  and  the  quiet 
cattle  knee-deep  in  the  gliding  waters.  Never  did  stream 
more  smooth  and  sheen,  than  was  at  that  hour  the  surface  of 
the  Moselle,  mirror  the  images  or  the  pastoral  life.  Beyond, 
the  darker  shadows  of  the  bridge  and  of  the  walls  of  Coblentz 
fell  deep  over  the  waves,  checkered  by  the  tall  sails  of  the 
craft  that  were  moored  around  the  harbor.  But  clear  against 
the  sun  rose  the  spires  and  roofs  of  Coblentz,  backed  by  many 
a  hill  sloping  away  to  the  horizon.  High,  dark,  and  massive, 
on  the  opposite  bank,  swelled  the  towers  and  rock  of  Ehren- 
breitstein  ;  a  type  of  that  great  chivalric  spirit — the  HONOR 
that  the  rock  arrogates  for  its  name — which  demands  so  many 
sacrifices  of  blood  and  tears,  but  which  ever  creates  in  the 
restless  heart  of  man  a  far  deeper  interest  than  the  morepeac«»» 


THE    PILGRIMS    OF    THE    RHINE.  149 

f  ul  scenes  of  life  by  which  it  is  contrasted.  There,  still,  from 
the  calm  waters,  and  the  abodes  of  common  toil  and  ordinary 
pleasure,  turns  the  aspiring  mind  !  Still  as  we  gaze  on  that 
lofty  and  immemorial  rock  we  recall  the  famine  and  the  siege ; 
and  own  that  the  more  daring  crimes  of  men  have  a  strange 
privilege  in  hallowing  the  very  spot  which  they  devastate  ! 

Below,  in  green  curves  and  mimic  bays  covered  with  herb- 
age, the  gradual  banks  mingled  with  the  water  ;  and  just 
where  the  bridge  closed,  a  solitary  group  of  trees,  standing 
dark  in  the  thickest  shadow,  gave  that  melancholy  feature  to 
the  scene  which  resembles  the  one  dark  thought  that  often 
forces  itself  into  our  sunniest  hours.  Their  coughs  stirred  not ; 
no  voice  of  birds  broke  the  stillness  of  their  gloomy  verdure ; 
the  eye  turned  from  them,  as  from  the  sad  moral  that  belongs 
to  existence. 

In  proceeding  to  Trarbach,  Gertrude  was  seized  with  another 
of  those  fainting  fits  which  had  so  terrified  Trevylyan  before  ; 
they  stopped  an  hour  or  two  at  a  little  village,  but  Gertrude 
rallied  with  such  apparent  rapidity,  and  so  strongly  insisted  on 
proceeding,  that  they  reluctantly  continued  their  way.  This 
event  would  have  thrown  a  gloom  over  their  journey,  if  Ger- 
trude had  not  exerted  herself  to  dispel  the  impression  she  had 
occasioned  ;  and  so  light,  so  cheerful  were  her  spirits  that,  for 
the  time  at  least,  she  succeeded. 

They  arrived  at  Trarbach  late  at  noon.  This  now  small 
and  humble  town  is  said  to  have  been  the  Thronus  Bacchi  of 
the  ancients.  From  the  spot  where  the  travellers  halted  to 
take,  as  it  were,  their  impression  of  the  town,  they  saw  before 
them  the  little  hostelry,  a  poor  pretender  to  the  Thronus  Bacchi, 
with  the  rude  sign  of  the  Holy  Mother  over  the  door.  The 
peaked  roof,  the  sunk  window,  the  gray  walls,  checkered  with 
the  rude  beams  of  wood  so  common  to  the  meaner  houses  on 
the  Continent,  bore  something  of  a  melancholy  and  unprepos- 
sessing aspect.  Right  above,  with  its  Gothic  windows  and 
venerable  spire,  rose  the  church  of  the  town  ;  and,  crowning 
the  summit  of  a  green  and  almost  perpendicular  mountain, 
scowled  the  remains  of  one  of  those  mighty  castles  which  make 
the  never-failing  frown  on  a  German  landscape. 

The  scene  was  one  of  quiet  and  of  gloom  ;  the  exceeding 
serenity  of  the  day  contrasted,  with  an  almost  unpleasing 
brightness,  the  poverty  of  the  town,  the  thinness  of  the  popu- 
lation, and  the  dreary  grandeur  of  the  ruins  that  overhung  the 
capital  of  the  perished  race  of  the  bold  Counts  of  Spanheim. 

They  passed   the  night  at  Trarbach,  and  continued  their 


I5O  THE    PILGRIMS   OF    THE    RHINE. 

journey  next  day.  At  Treves,  Gertrude  was  for  some  days 
seriously  ill ;  and  when  they  returned  to  Coblentz,  her  disease 
had  evidently  received  a  rapid  and  alarming  increase. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

THE      DOUBLE     LIFE.  —  TREVYLYAN's     FATE. SORROW      THE 

PARENT    OF    FAME.— NIEDERLAHNSTEIN. — DREAMS. 

THERE  are  two  lives  to  each  of  us,  gliding  on  at  the  same 
time,  scarcely  connected  with  each  other  ! — the  life  of  our 
actions,  the  life  of  our  minds  ;  the  external  and  the  inward 
history  ;  the  movements  of  the  frame,  the  deep  and  ever  rest- 
less workings  of  the  heart!  They  who  have  loved  know 
that  there  is  a  diary  of  the  affections,  which  we  might 
keep  for  years  without  having  occasion  even  to  touch  upon  the 
exterior  surface  of  life,  our  busy  occupations — the  mechanical 
progress  of  our  existence  ;  yet  by  the  last  are  we  judged,  the 
first  is  never  known.  History  reveals  men's  deeds,  men's  out- 
ward characters,  but  not  themselves.  There  is  a  secret  self  that 
hath  its  own  life  "  rounded  by  a  dream,"  impenetrated, 
unguessed.  What  passed  within  Trevylyan,  hour  after  hour,  as 
he  watched  over  the  declining  health  of  the  only  being  in  the 
world  whom  his  proud  heart  had  been  ever  destined  to  love  ! 
His  real  record  of  the  time  was  marked  by  every  cloud  upon 
Gertrude's  brow,  every  smile  of  her  countenance,  every — the 
faintest — alteration  in  her  disease  ;  yet,  to  the  outward  seem- 
ing, all  this  vast  current  of  varying,  eventful  emotion  lay  dark 
and  unconjectured.  He  filled  up,  with  wonted  regularity,  the 
colorings  of  existence,  and  smiled  and  moved  as  other  men. 
For  still,  in  the  heroism  with  which  devotion  conquers  self,  he 
sought  only  to  cheer  and  gladden  the  young  heart  on  which  he 
had  embarked  his  all ;  and  he  kept  the  dark  tempest  of  his 
anguish  for  the  solitude  of  night. 

That  was  a  peculiar  doom  which  Fate  had  reserved  for  him  ; 
and  casting  him,  :ji  after-years,  on  the  great  sea  of  public 
strife,  it  seemed  as  ir"  she  were  resolved  to  tear  from  his  heart 
all  yearnings  for  the  land.  For  him  there  was  to  be  no  green 
or  sequestered  spot  in  the  valley  of  household  peace.  His 
bark  was  to  know  no  haven,  and  his  soul  not  even  the  desire 
of  rest.  For  action  is  that  Lethe  in  which  alone  we  forget  our 
former  dreams,  and  the  mind  that,  too  stern  not  to  wrestle 
with  its  emotions,  seeks  to  conquer  regret,  must  leave  itself  no 
leisure  to  look  behind.  Who  knows  what  benefits  to  the  world 


THE   PILGRIMS   OF    THE    RHINE.  151 

may  have  sprung  from  the  sorrows  of  the  benefactor  ?  As  the 
harvest  that  gladdens  mankind  in  the  suns  of  autumn  was 
called  forth  by  the  rains  of  spring,  so  the  griefs  of  youth  may 
make  the  fame  of  maturity. 

Gertrude,  charmed  by  the  beauties  of  the  river,  desired  to 
continue  the  voyage  to  Mayence.  The  rich  Trevylyan  per- 
suaded the  physician  who  attended  her  to  accompany  them, 
and  they  once  more  pursued  their  way  along  the  banks  of  the 
feudal  Rhine.  For  what  the  Tiber  is  to  the  classic,  the  Rhine 
is  to  the  chivalric,  age.  The  steep  rock  and  the  gray  dis- 
mantled tower,  the  massive  and  rude  picturesque  of  the  feudal 
days,  constitute  the  great  features  of  the  scene  ;  and  you  might 
almost  fancy,  as  you  glide  along,  that  you  are  sailing  back 
adown  the  river  of  Time,  and  the  monuments  of  the  pomp 
and  power  of  old,  rising,  one  after  one,  upon  its  shores  ! 

Vane  and  Du e,  the  physician,  at  the  farther  end  of  the 

vessel,  conversed  upon  stones  and  strata,  in  that  singular 
pedantry  of  science  which  strips  nature  to  a  skeleton,  and 
prowls  among  the  dead  bones  of  the  world  unconscious  of 
its  living  beauty. 

They  left  Gertrude  and  Trevylyan  to  themselves,  and 
"  bending  o'er  the  vessel's  laving  side,"  they  indulged  in 
silence  the  melancholy  with  which  each  was  imbued.  For  Ger- 
trude began  to  waken,  though  doubtingly  and  at  intervals,  to 
a  sense  of  the  short  span  that  was  granted  to  her  life  ;  and 
over  the  loveliness  around  her  there  floated  that  sad  and  inef- 
fable interest  which  springs  from  the  presentiment  of  our  own 
death.  They  passed  the  rich  island  of  Oberwerth,  and  Hoch- 
heim,  famous  for  its  ruby  grape,  and  saw,  from  his  mountain 
bed,  the  Lahn  bear  his  tribute  of  fruits  and  corn  into  the 
treasury  of  the  Rhine.  Proudly  rose  the  tower  of  Niederlahn- 
stein,  and  deeply  lay  its  shadow  along  the  stream.  It  was  late 
noon  ;  the  cattle  had  sought  the  shade  from  the  slanting  sun, 
and,  far  beyond,  the  holy  castle  of  Marksburg  raised  its  battle- 
ments above  mountains  covered  with  the  vine.  On  the  water 
two  boats  had  been  drawn  alongside  each  other ;  and  from 
one.  now  moving  to  the  land,  the  splash  of  oars  broke  the 
general  stillness  of  the  tide.  Fast  by  an  old  tower  the  fisher- 
men were  busied  in  their  craft,  but  the  sound  of  their  voices 
did  not  reach  the  ear.  It  was  life,  but  a  silent  life  ;  suited  to 
the  tranquillity  of  noon. 

"  There  is  something  in  travel,"  said  Gertrude,  "  which  con- 
stantly, even  amidst  the  most  retired  spots,  impresses  us  with 
the  exuberance  of  life.  We  come  to  those  quiet  nooks  and  find 


152  THE    PILGRIMS   OF    THE   RHINE. 

g.  race  whose  existence  we  never  dreamed  of.  In  their  humble 
path  they  know  the  same  passions  and  tread  the  same  career 
as  ourselves.  The  mountains  shut  them  out  from  the  great 
world,  but  their  village  is  a  world  in  itself.  And  they  know 
and  heed  no  more  of  the  turbulent  scenes  of  remote  cities, 
than  our  own  planet  of  the  inhabitants  "of  the  distant  stars. 
What  then  is  death,  but  the  forgetfulness  of  some  few  hearts 
added  to  the  general  unconsciousness  of  our  existence  that 
pervades  the  universe  ?  The  bubble  breaks  in  the  vast  desert 
of  the  air  without  a  sound." 

"  Why  talk  of  death  ? "  said  Trevylyan,  with  a  writhing 
smile  ;  "  these  sunny  scenes  should  not  call  forth  such  melan- 
choly images." 

"  Melancholy,"  repeated  Gertrude  mechanically.  "  Yes, 
death  is  indeed  melancholy  when  we  are  loved  ! " 

They  stayed  a  short  time  at  Niederlahnstein,  for  Vane  was 
anxious  to  examine  the  minerals  that  the  Lahn  brings  into  the 
Rhine  ;  and  the  sun  was  waning  towards  its  close  as  they 
renewed  their  voyage.  As  they  sailed  slowly  on,  Gertrude  said  : 
"  How  like  a  dream  is  this  sentiment  of  existence,  when,  with- 
out labor  or  motion,  every  change  of  scene  is  brought  before 
us  ;  and  if  I  am  with  you,  dearest,  I  do  not  feel  it  less  resem- 
bling a  dream,  for  I  have  dreamed  of  you  lately  more  than 
ever.  And  dreams  have  become  a  part  of  my  life  itself." 

"  Speaking  of  dreams,"  said  Trevylyan,  as  they  pursued 
that  mysterious  subject ;  "  I  once  during  my  former  residency 
in  Germany  fell  in  with  a  singular  enthusiast,  who  had  taught 
himself  what  he  termed  'A  System  of  Dreaming.'  When  he 
first  spoke  to  me  upon  it  I  asked  him  to  explain  what  he 
meant,  which  he  did  somewhat  in  the  following  words." 


CHAPTER   XXIII. 

THE    LIFE    OF    DREAMS. 

"  I  WAS  born,"  said  he,  "  with  many  of  the  sentiments 
of  the  poet,  but  without  the  language  to  express  them  ;  my 
feelings  were  constantly  chilled  by  the  intercourse  of  the 
actual  world — my  family,  mere  Germans,  dull  and  unim- 
passioned,  had  nothing  in  common  with  me ;  nor  did  I  out 
of  my  family  find  those  with  whom  I  could  better  sympathize. 
I  was  revolted  by  friendships, 'for  they  were  susceptible  to 
every  change  ;  I  was  disappointed  in  love,  for  the  truth  never 
approached  to  my  ideal,  Nursed  early  in  the  lap  of  Romance 


THE   PILGRIMS   OF   tHE   RHINE.  i(j$ 

enamoured  of  the  wild  and  the  adventurous,  the  common- 
places of  life  were  to  me  inexpressibly  tame  and  joyless.  And 
yet  indolence,  which  belongs  to  the  poetical  character,  was 
more  inviting  than  that  eager  and  uncontemplative  action 
which  can  alone  wring  enterprise  from  life.  Meditation  was 
my  natural  element.  I  loved  to  spend  the  noon  reclined  by 
some  shady  stream,  and  in  a  half-sleep  to  shape  images  from 
the  glancing  sunbeams  ;  a  dim  and  unreal  order  of  philosophy, 
that  belongs  to  our  nation,  was  my  favorite  intellectual  pursuit. 
And  I  sought  amongst  the  Obscure  and  the  Recondite  the 
variety  and  emotion  I  could  not  find  in  the  Familiar.  Thus 
constantly  watching  the  operations  of  the  inner-mind,  it  oc- 
curred to  me  at  last,  that  sleep  having  its  own  world,  but  as 
yet  a  rude  and  fragmentary  one,  it  might  be  possible  to  shape 
from  its  chaos  all  those  combinations  of  beauty,  of  power,  of 
glory,  and  of  love,  which  were  denied  to  me  in  the  world  in 
which  my  frame  walked  and  had  its  being.  So  soon  as  this 
idea  came  upon  me,  I  nursed,  and  cherished,  and  mused  over 
it,  till  I  found  that  the  imagination  began  to  effect  the  miracle 
I  desired.  By  brooding  ardently,  intensely,  before  I  retired  to 
rest,  over  any  especial  train  of  thought,  over  any  ideal  creations  ; 
by  keeping  the  body  utterly  still  and  quiescent  during  the 
whole  day  ;  by  shutting  out  all  living  adventure,  the  memory 
of  which  might  perplex  and  interfere  with  the  stream  of  events 
that  I  desired  to  pour  forth  into  the  wilds  of  sleep,  I  discovered 
at  last  that  I  could  lead  in  dreams  a  life  solely  their  own,  and 
utterly  distinct  from  the  life  of  day.  Towers  and  palaces,  all 
my  heritage  and  seigneury,  rose  before  me  from  the  depths  of 
night;  I  quaffed  from  jewelled  cups  the  Falernian  of  imperial 
vaults  ;  music  from  harps  of  celestial  tone  filled  up  the  crevices 
of  air  ;  and  the  smiles  of  immortal  beauty  flushed  like  sunlight 
over  all.  Thus  the  adventure  and  the  glory,  that  I  could  not 
for  my  waking  life  'obtain,  was  obtained  for  me  in  sleep.  I 
wandered  with  the  gryphon  and  the  gnome  ;  I  sounded  the 
horn  at  enchanted  portals  ;  I  conquered  in  the  knightly  lists ; 
I  planted  my  standard  over  battlements  huge  as  the  painter's 
birth  of  Babylon  itself. 

"But  I  was  afraid  to  call  forth  one  shape  on  whose  loveli- 
ness to  pour  all  the  hidden  passion  of  my  soul.  I  trembled 
lest  my  sleep  shouTd  present  me  some  image  which  it  could 
never  restore,  and,  waking  from  which,  even  the  new  world  I 
had  created  might  be  left  desolate  forever.  I  shuddered  iest 
I  should  adore  a  vision  which  the  first  ray  of  morning  could 
smite  to  the  grave. 


Of   THE   RHINE. 

"  In  this  train  of  mind  I  began  to  ponder  whether  it  might 
not  be .  possible  to  connect  dreams  together ;  to  supply  the 
thread  that  was  wanting  ;  to  make  one  night  continue  the 
history  of  the  other,  so  as  to  bring  together  the  same  shapes 
and  the  same  scenes,  and  thus  lead  a  connected  and  har- 
monious life,  not  only  in  the  one  half  of  existence,  but  in  the 
other,  the  richer  and  more  glorious,  half.  No  sooner  did  this 
idea  present  itself  to  me,  than  I  burned  to  accomplish  it.  I 
had  before  taught  myself  that  Faith  is  the  great  creator  ;  that 
to  believe  fervently  is  to  make  belief  true.  So  I  would  not 
suffer  my  mind  to  doubt  the  practicability  of  its  scheme.  I 
shut  myself  up  then  entirely  by  day,  refused  books,  and  hated 
the  very  sun,  and  compelled  all  my  thoughts  (and  sleep  is  the 
mirror  of  thought)  to  glide  in  one  direction,  the  direction  of 
my  dreams,  so  that  from  night  to  night  the  imagination  might 
keep  up  the  thread  of  action,  and  I  might  thus  lie  down  full 
of  the  past  dream  and  confident  of  the  sequel.  Not  for  one 
day  only,  or  for  one  month,  did  I  pursue  this  system,  but  I 
continued  it  zealously  and  sternly  till  at  length  it  began  to 
succeed.  Who  shall  tell,"  cried  the  enthusiast — I  see  him 
now  with  his  deep,  bright,  sunken  eyes,  and  his  wild  hair 
thrown  backward  from  his  brow — "the  rapture  I  experienced 
when  first,  faintly  and  half  distinct,  I  perceived  the  harmony 
I  had  invoked  dawn  upon  my  dreams?  At  first  there  was 
only  a  partial  and  desultory  connection  between  them  ;  my 
eye  recognized  certain  shapes,  my  ear  certain  tones  common 
to  each ;  by  degrees  these  augmented  in  number,  and  were 
more  defined  in  outline.  At  length  one  fair  face  broke  forth 
from  among  the  ruder  forms,  and  night  after  night  appeared 
mixing  with  them  for  a  moment  and  then  vanishing,  just  as 
the  mariner  watches,  in  a  clouded  sky,  the  moon  shining 
through  the  drifting  rack,  and  quickly  gone.  My  curiosity 
was  now  vividly  excited  ;  the  face,  with  its  lustrous  eyes,  and 
seraph  features,  roused  all  the  emotions  that  no  living  shape 
had  called  forth.  I  became  enamoured  of  a  dream,  and  as 
the  statue  to  the  Cyprian  was  my  creation  to  me  ;  so  from 
this  intent  and  unceasing  passion,  I  at  length  worked  out  my 
reward.  My  dream  became  more  palpable  ;  I  spoke  with  it  ; 
1  knelt  to  it ;  my  lips  were  pressed  to  its  own  ;  we  exchanged 
the  vows  of  love,  and  morning  only  separated  us  with  the 
certainty  that  at  night  we  should  meet  again.  Thus  then," 
continued  my  visionary,  "I  commenced  a  history  utterly 
separate  from  the  history  of  the  world,  and  it  went  on 
alternately  with  my  harsh  and  chilling  history  of  the  day, 


THE   PILGRIMS   OF   THE    RHINE.  155 

equally  regular  and  equally  continuous.  And  what,  you 
ask,  was  that  history  ?  Methought  I  was  a  prince  in  some 
Eastern  island,  that  had  no  features  in  common  with  the 
colder  north  of  my  native  home.  By  day  I  looked  upon  the 
dull  walls  of  a  German  town,  and  saw  homely  or  squalid  forms 
passing  before  me  ;  the  sky  was  dim  and  the  sun  cheerless. 
Night  came  on  with  her  thousand  stars,  and  brought  me  the 
dews  of  sleep.  Then  suddenly  there  was  a  new  world  ;  the 
richest  fruits  hung  from  the  trees  in  clusters  of  gold  and/ 
purple.  Palrces  of  the  quaint  fashion  of  the  sunnier  climes, 
with  spiral  minarets  and  glittering  cupolas,  were  mirrored 
upon  vast  lakes  sheltered  by  the  palm-tree  and  banana.  The 
sun  seemed  a  different  orb,  so  mellow  and  gorgeous  were  his 
beams  ;  birds  and  winged  things  of  all  hues  fluttered  in  the 
shining  air;  the  faces  and  garments  of  men  were  not  of  the 
northern  regions  of  the  world,  and  their  voices  spoke  a  tongue 
which,  strange  at  first,  by  degrees  I  interpreted.  Sometimes 
I  made  war  upon  neighboring  kings  ;  sometimes  I  chased  the 
spotted  pard  through  the  vast  gloom  of  immemorial  forests  ; 
my  life  was  at  once  a  life  of  enterprise  and  pomp.  But  above 
all  there  was  the  history  of  my  love  !  I  thought  there  were  a 
thousand  difficulties  in  the  way  of  attaining  its  possession. 
Many  were  the  rocks  I  had  to  scale,  and  the  battles  to  wage, 
and  the  fortresses  to  storm,  in  order  to  win  her  as  my  bride. 
But  at  last  (continued  the  enthusiast)  she  ts  won,  she  is  my 
own  !  Time  in  that  wild  world,  which  I  visit  nightly,  passes 
not  so  slowly  as  in  this,  and  yet  an  hour  may  be  the  same  as  a 
year.  This  continuity  of  existence,  this  successive  series  of 
dreams,  so  different  from  the  broken  incoherence  of  other 
men's  sleep,  at  times  bewilders  me  with  strange  and  sus- 
picious thoughts.  What  if  this  glorious  sleep  be  a  real  life, 
and  this  dull  waking  the  true  repose?  Why  not  ?  What  is 
there  more  faithful  in  the  one  than  in  the  other?  And  there 
have  I  garnered  and  collected  all  of  pleasure  that  I  am  cap- 
able of  feeling.  I  seek  no  joy  in  this  world  ;  I  form  no  ties, 
I  feast  not,  nor  love,  nor  make  merry — I  am  only  impatient 
till  the  hour  when  I  may  re-enter  my  royal  realms  and  pour 
my  renewed  delight  into  the  bosom  of  my  bright  Ideal.  There 
then  have  I  found  all  that  the  world  denied  me  ;  there  have  I 
realized  the  yearning  and  the  aspiration  within  me  ;  there 
have  I  coined  the  untold  poetry  into  the  Felt — the  Seen  !  " 

I  found,  continued  Trevylyan,  that  this  tale  was  corrobo- 
rated by  inquiry  into  the  visionary's  habits.  He  shunned 
society ;  avoided  all  unnecessary  movement  or  excitement 


t$6  ±HE   PILGRIMS   Of    THE    RHINE. 

He  fared  with  rigid  abstemiousness,  and  only  appeared  to  feel 
pleasure  as  the  day  departed,  and  the  hour  of  return  to  his 
imaginary  kingdom  approached.  He  always  retired  to  rest 
punctually  at  a  certain  hour,  and  would  sleep  so  soundly,  that 
a  cannon  fired  under  his  window  would  not  arouse  him.  He 
never,  which  may  seem  singular,  spoke  or  moved  much  in  his 
sleep,  but  was  peculiarly  calm,  almost  to  the  appearance  of 
lifelessness  ;  but,  discovering  once  that  he  had  been  watched  in 
sleep,  he  was  wont  afterwards  carefully  to  secure  the  chamUiH' 
from  intrusion.  His  victory  over  the  natural  incoherence  of 
sleep  had,  when  I  first  knew  him,  lasted  for  some  years ;  pos- 
sibly what  imagination  first  produced  was  afterwards  continued 
by  habit. 

I  saw  him  again  a  few  months  subsequent  to  this  confession, 
and  he  seemed  to  me  much  changed.  His  health  was  broken, 
and  his  abstraction  had  deepened  into  gloom. 

I  questioned  him  of  the  cause  of  the  alteration,  and  he 
answered  me  with  great  reluctance  : 

"  She  is  dead,"  said  he  ;  "  my  realms  are  desolate  !  A  ser- 
pent stung  her,  and  she  died  in  these  very  arms.  Vainly,  when 
I  started  from  my  sleep  in  horror  and  despair,  vainly  did  I  say 
to  myself — This  is  but  a  dream.  I  shall  see  her  again.  A 
vision  cannot  die  !  Hath  it  flesh  that  decays  ?  Is  it  not  a 
spirit — bodiless — indissoluble?  With  what  terrible  anxiety  I 
awaited  the  night  !  A-gain  I  slept,  and  the  DREAM  lay  again 
before  me — dead  and  withered.  Even  the  ideal  can  vanish. 
I  assisted  in  the  burial ;  I  laid  her  in  the  earth  ;  I  heaped  the 
monumental  mockery  over  her  form.  And  never  since  hath 
she,  or  aught  like  her,  revisited  my  dreams.  I  see  her  only 
when  I  wake  ;  thus  to  wake  is  indeed  to  dream  !  But,"  con- 
tinued the  visionary,  in  a  solemn  voice,  "  I  feel  myself  depart- 
ing from  this  world,  and  with  a  fearful  joy  ;  for  I  think  there 
may  be  a  land  beyond  even  the  land  of  sleep,  where  I 
shall  see  her  again — a  land  in  which  a  vision  itself  may  be 
restored." 

And  in  truth,  concluded  Trevylyan,  the  dreamer  died 
shortly  afterwards,  suddenly,  and  in  his  sleep.  And  never  be- 
fore, perhaps,  had  Fate  so  literally  made  of  a  living  man  (with 
his  passions  and  his  powers,  his  ambition  and  his  love)  the 
plaything  and  puppet  of  a  dream  ! 

"  Ah,"  said  Vane,  who  had  heard  the  latter  part  of  Trevy- 
lyan's  story;  "could  the  German  have  bequeathed  to  us  his 
secret,  what  a  refuge  should  we  possess  from  the  ills  of  earth  ! 
The  dungeon  and  disease,  poverty,  affliction,  shame,  would 


THE   PILGRIMS  Of   THE   RHINE.  157 

£6ase  to  be  the  tyrants  of  our  lot ;  and  to  Sleep  we  should  con- 
fine our  history  and  transfer  our  emotions." 

"  Gertrude,"  whispered  the  lover,  "  what  hfs  kingdom  and 
his  bride  were  to  the  Dreamer  art  thou  to  me  !  " 


CHAPTER    XXIV. 

THE    BROTHERS. 

THE  banks  of  the  Rhine  now  shelved  away  into  sweeping 
plains,  and  on  their  right  rose  the  once  imperial  city  of  Bop- 
part.  In  no  journey  of  similar  length  do  you  meet  with  such 
striking  instances  of  the  mutability  and  shifts  of  power.  To 
find,  as  in  the  Memphian  Egypt,  a  city  sunk  into  a  heap  of 
desolate  ruins  ;  the  hum,  the  roar,  the  mart  of  nations,  hushed 
into  the  silence  of  ancestral  tombs,  is  less  humbling  to  our 
human  vanity  than  to  mark,  as  along  the  Rhine,  the  kingly 
city  dwindled  into  the  humble  town  or  the  dreary  village  ; 
decay  wuhout  its  grandeur,  change  without  the  awe  of  its 
solitude  !  On  the  site  on  which  Drusus  raised  his  Roman 
tower,  and  the  kings  of  the  Franks  their  palaces,  trade  now 
dribbles  in  tobacco-pipes,  and  transforms  into  an  excellent 
cotton  factory  the  antique  nunnery  of  Koningsberg  !  So  be 
it ;  it  is  the  progressive  order  of  things — the  world  itself  will 
soon  be  one  excellent  cotton  factory  !  ' 

"  Look  !  "  said  Trevylyan,  as  they  sailed  on,  "  at  yonder 
mountain,  with  its  two  traditionary  Castles  of  Liebenstein  and 
Sternfels." 

Massive  and  huge  the  ruins  swelled  above  the  green  rock, 
at  the  foot  of  which  lay,  in  happier  security  from  time  and 
change,  the  clustered  cottages  of  the  peasant,  with  a  single 
spire  rising  above  the  quiet  village. 

"  Is  there  not,  Albert,  a  celebrated  legend  attached  to  those 
castles  ?"  said  Gertrude.  "  I  think  I  remember  to  have  heard 
their  names  in  connection  with  your  profession  of  tale-teller." 

"  Yes,'1,  said  Trevylyan  ;  "  the  story  relates  to  the  last  lords 
of  those  shattered  towers,  and — " 

"  You  will  sit  here,  nearer  to  me,  and  begin,"  interrupted 
Gertrude,  in  her  tone  of  childlike  command —  "  Come." 

THE    BROTHERS. 

A  TAI.E.* 

You  must  imagine,  then,  dear  Gertrude  (said  Trevylyan), 

*  This  tale  is,  in  reality,  founded  on  the  beautiful  tradition  which  belongs  to  Liebensicin 
and  Sternfels. 


f$8  fHE   P1LCJR1MS  OF   THE   RHINE. 

a  beautiful  summer  day,  and  by  the  same  faculty  that  nond 
possess  so  richly  as  yourself,  for  it  is  you  who  can  kindle 
something  of  that  divine  spark  even  in  me,  you  must  rebuild 
those  shattered  towers  in  the  pomp  of  old  ;  raise  the  gallery 
and  the  hall ;  man  the  battlement  with  warders,  and  give  the 
proud  banners  of  ancestral  chivalry  to  wave  upon  the  walls. 
But  above,  sloping  half  down  the  rock,  you  must  fancy  the 
hanging  gardens  of  Liebenstein,  fragrant  with  flowers,  and 
basking  in  the  noonday  sun. 

On  the  greenest  turf,  underneath  an  oak,  there  sat  three 
persons,  in  the  bloom  of  youth.  Two  of  the  tfiree  were  brothers  ; 
the  third  was  an  orphan  girl,  whom  the  lord  of  the  opposite 
tower  of  Sternfels  had  bequeathed  to  the  protection  of  his 
brother,  the  chief  of  Liebenstein.  The  castle  itself  and  the 
demesne  that  belonged  to  it  passed  away  from  the  female  line, 
and  became  the  heritage  of  Otho,  the  orphan's  cousin,  and  the 
younger  of  the  two  brothers  now  seated  on  the  turf. 

"  And  oh,"  said  the  elder,  whose  name  was  VVarbeck,  "you 
have  twined  a  chaplet  for  my  brother  ;  have  you  not,  dearest 
Leoline,  a  simple  flower  for  me  ?  " 

The  beautiful  orphan  (for  beautiful  she  was,  Gertrude,  as 
the  heroine  of  the  tale  you  bid  me  telt  ought  to  be, — should 
she  not  have  to  the  dreams  of  my  fancy  your  lustrous  hair, 
and  your  sweet  smile,  and  your  eyes  of  blue,  that  are  never, 
never  silent?  Ah,  pardon  me,  that  in  a  former  tale,  I  denied 
the  heroine  the  beauty  of  your  face,  and  remember  that  to 
atone  for  it,  I  endowed  her  with  the  beauty  of  your  mind) — 
the  beautiful  orphan  blushed  to  her  temples,  and  culling  from 
the  flowers  in  her  lap  the  freshest  of  the  roses,  began  weaving 
them  into  a  wreath  for  Warbeck. 

"It  would  be  better,"  said  the  gay  Otho,  "to  make  my 
sober  brother  a  chaplet  of  the  rue  and  cypress ;  the  rose  is 
much  too  bright  a  flower  for  so  serious  a  knight." 

Leoline  held  up  her  hand  reprovingly. 

"  Let  him  laugh,  dearest  cousin,"  said  Warbeck^  gazing 
passionately  on  her  changing  cheek:  "and  thou,  Leoline, 
believe  that  the  silent  stream  runs  the  deepest." 

At  this  moment,  they  heard  the  voice  of  the  old  chief,  their 
father,  calling  aloud  for  Leoline  ;  for,  ever  when  he  returned 
from  the  chase,  he  wanted  her  gentle  presence  ;  and  the  hall 
was  solitary  to  him  if  the  light  sound  of  her  step,  and  the 
music  of  her  voice,  were  not  heard  in  welcome. 

Leoline  hastened  to  her  guardian,  and  the  brothers  were 
left  alone. 


THE   PILGRIMS  Of   THE   RHINE,  159 

Nothing  could  be  more  dissimilar  than  the  features  and  the 
respective  characters  of  Otho  and  Warbeck.  Otho's  counte- 
nance was  flushed  with  the  brown  hues  of  health  ;  his  eyes  were 
of  the  brightest  hazel  :  his  dark  hair  wreathed  in  short  curls 
round  his  open  and  fearless  brow ;'  the  jest  ever  echoed  on 
his  lips,  and  his  step  was  bounding  as  the  foot  of  the  hunter 
of  the  Alps.  Bold  and  light  was  his  spirit;  if  at  times  he 
betrayed  the  haughty  insolence  of  youth,  he  felt  generously, 
and  though  not  ever  ready  to  confess  sorrow  for  a  fault,  he  was 
at  least  ready  to  brave  peril  for  a  friend. 

But  Warbeck's  frame,  though  of  equal  strength,  was  more 
slender  in  its  proportions  than  that  of  his  brother  ;  the  fair, 
long  hair,  that  characterized  his  northern  race,  hung  on  either 
side  of  a  countenance  calm  and  pale,  and  deeply  impressed 
with  thought,  even  to  sadness.  His  features, "more  majestic 
and  regular  than  Otho's,  rarely  varied  in  their  expression. 
More  resolute  even  than  Otho,  he  was  less  impetuous ;  more 
impassioned,  he  was  also  less  capricious. 

The  brothers  remained  silent  after  Leoline  had  left  them. 
Otho  carelessly  braced  on  his  sword,  that  he  had  laid  aside  on 
the  grass  ;  but  Warbeck  gathered  up  the  flowers  that  had  been 
touched  by  the  soft  hand  of  Leoline,  and  placed  them  in  his 
bosom. 

The  action  disturbed  Otho;  he  bit  his  lip,  and  changed 
color ;  at  length  he  said,  with  a  forced  laugh  : 

"  It  must  be  confessed,  brother,  that  you  carry  your  affection 
for  our  fair  cousin  to  a  degree  that  even  relationship  seems 
scarcely  to  warrant." 

"  It  is  true,"  said  Warbeck  calmly  :  "  I  love  her  with  a  love 
surpassing  that  of  blood." 

"  How ! "  said  Otho  fiercely  :  "  do  you  dare  to  think  of 
Leoline  as  a  bride  ?" 

•'  Dare  ! "  repeated  Warbeck,  turning  yet  paler  than  his 
wonted  hue. 

"  Yes,  I  have  said  the  word  !  Know,  Warbeck,  that  I,  too, 
love  Leoline  ;  I,  too,  claim  her  as  my  bride  ;  and  never,  while 
I  can  wield  a  sword — never,  while  I  wear  the  spurs  of  knight- 
hood, will  I  render  my  claim  to  a  living  rival.  Even,"  he 
added  (sinking  his  voice),  "  though  that  rival  be  my  brother  !" 

Warbeck  answered  not ;  his  very  soul  seemed  stunned  ;  he 
gazed  long  and  wistfully  on  his  brother,  and  then,  turning  his 
face  away,  ascended  the  rock  without  uttering  a  single  word. 

This  silence  startled  Otho.  Accustomed  to  vent  every 
emotion  of  his  own,  he  could  not  comprehend  the  forbearance 


l6o  THE   PILGRIMS   OF    THE   RHINE. 

ot  his  brother  ;  he  knew  his  high  and  brave  nature  too  well  to 
imagine  that  it  arose  from  fear.  Might  it  not  be  contempt,  or 
might  he  not,  at  this  moment,  intend  to  seek  their  father  ;  and, 
the  first  to  proclaim  his  love  for  the  orphan,  advance,  also,  the 
privilege  of  the  elder  born?  As  these  suspicions  flashed 
across  him,  the  haughty  Otho  strode  to  his  brother's  side,  and 
laying  his  hand  on  his  arm,  said  : 

"  Whither  goestthou  ?  And  dost  thou  consent  to  surrender 
Leoline  ?  " 

"  Does  she  love  thee,  Otho  ?"  answered  Warbeck,  breaking 
silence  at  last ;  and  his  voice  spoke  so  deep  an  anguish,  that  it 
arrested  the  passions  of  Otho,  even  at  their  height. 

"  It  is  thou  who  art  now  silent,"  continued  Warbeck  ; 
"  speak,  doth- she  love  thee,  aud  has  her  lip  confessed  it  ? " 

"  I  have  believed  that  she  loved  me,"  faltered  Otho  ;  "  but 
she  is  of  maiden  bearing,  and  her  lip,  at  least,  has  never  told  it." 

"  Enough,"  said  Warbeck,  "  release  your  hold." 

"Stay,"  said  Otho,  his  suspicions  returning;  "stay — yet 
one  word  ;  dost  thou  seek  my  father  ?  He  ever  honored  thee 
more  than  me  :  wilt  thou  own  to  him  thy  love,  and  insist  on 
thy  right  of  birth  ?  By  my  soul  and  my  hope  of  heaven,  do  it, 
and  one  of  us  two  must  fall  !  " 

"  Poor  boy  !  "  answered  Warbeck  bitterly  ;  "  how  little  thou 
canst  read  the  heart  of  one  who  loves  truly.  Thinkest  thou,  I 
would  wed  her  if  she  love  thee  ?  Thinkest  thou  I  could,  even 
to  be  blessed  myself,  give  her  one  moment's  pain  ?  Out  on 
the  thought — away  !  " 

"  Then  wilt  not  thou  seek  our  father  ?  "  said  Otho,  abashed. 

"  Our  father  ! — has  our  father  the  keeping  of  Leoline's  affec- 
tion ? "  answered  Warbeck  ;  and  shaking  off  his  brother's 
grasp,  he  sought  the  way  to  the  castle. 

As  he  entered  the  hall,  he  heard  the  voice  of  Leoline  ;  she 
was  singing  to  the  old  chief  one  of  the  simple  ballads  of  the 
time,  that  the  warrior  and  the  hunter  loved  to  hear.  He 
paused  lest  he  should  break  the  spell  (a  spell  stronger  than  a 
sorcerer's  to  him),  and  gazing  upon  Leoline's  beautiful  form, 
his  heart  sank  within  him.  His  brother  and  himself  hatl  each 
that  day,  as  they  sat  in  the  gardens,  given  her  a  flower  ;  /its. 
flower  was  the  fresher  and  the  rarer  ;  his  he  saw  not,  but  she 
wore  his  brother's  in  her  bosom  ! 

The  chief,  lulled  by  the  music  and  wearied  with  the  toils  of 
the  chase,  sank  into  sleep  as  the  song  ended,  and  Warbeck, 
coming  forward,  motioned  to  Leoline  to  follow  him.  He 
passed  into  a  retired  and  solitary  walk,  and  when  they  were  a 


THE    PILGRIMS   OF   THE   RHINE.  1 6-1 

little  distance   from  the  castle,  Warbeck  turned   round,   and 
taking  Leoline's  hand  gently,  said  : 

"  Let  us  rest  here  for  one  moment,  dearest  cousin  ;  I  have 
much  on  my  heart  to  say  to  thee." 

"  And  what  is  there,"  answered  Leoline,  as  they  sat  on  a 
mossy  bank,  with  the  broad  Rhine  glancing  below,  "  what  is 
there  that  my  kind  Warbeck  would  ask  of  me  ?  Ah  !  would 
it  might  be  some  favor,  something  in  poor  Leoline's  power  to 
grant  ;  for  ever  from  my  birth  you  have  been  to  me  most 
tender,  most  kind.  You,  I  have  often  heard  them  say,  taught 
my  first  steps  to  walk  ;  you  formed  my  infant  lips  into  Ian-' 
guage,  and,  in  after-years,  when  my  wild  cousin  was  far  away 
in  the  forests  at  the  chase,  you  would  brave  his  gay  jest  and 
remain  at  home,  lest  Leoline  should  be  weary  in  the  solitude. 
Ah,  would  I  could  repay  you  !  " 

Warbeck  turned  -away  his  cheek  ;  his  heart  was  very  full, 
and  it  was  some  moments  before  he  summoned  courage  to 
reply. 

"My  fair  cousin,"  said  he,  "  those  were  happy  days;  but 
they  were  the  days  of  childhood.  New  cares  and  new  thoughts 
have  now  come  on  us.  But  I  am  still  thy  friend,  Leoline,  and 
still  thou  wilt  confide  in  me  thy  young  sorrows  and  thy  young 
hopes,  as  thou  ever  didst.  Wilt  thou  not,  Leoline  ?  " 

"Canst  thou  ask  me  ?  "  said  Leoline  ;  and  Warbeck,  gazing 
on  her  face,  saw  that  though  her  eyes  were  full  of  tears,  they 
yet  looked  steadily  upon  his  ;  and  he  knew  that  she  loved  him 
only  as  a  sister. 

He  sighed,  and  paused  again  ere  he  resumed  :  "  Enough," 
said  he,  "  now  to  my  task.  Once  on  a  time,  dear  cousin,  there 
lived  among  these  mountains  a  certain  chief  who  had  two  sons, 
and  an  orphan  like  thyself  dwelt  also  in  his  halls.  And  the 
elder  son — but  no  matter,  let  us  not  waste  words  on  him  ! — 
the  younger  son,  then,  loved  the  orphan  dearly — more  dearly 
than  cousins  love  ;  and,  fearful  of  refusal,  he  prayed  the  elder 
one  to  urge  his  suit  to  the  orphan.  Leoline,  my  tale  is  done. 
Canst  thou  not  love  Otho  as  he  loves  thee  ? " 

And  now  lifting  his  eyes  to  Leoline,  he  saw  that  she  trem- 
bled violently,  and  her  cheek  was  covered  with  blushes. 

"  Say,"  continued  he,  mastering  himself ;  "  is  not  that 
flower  (his  present)  a  token  that  he  is  chiefly  in  thy  thoughts?" 

"  Ah,  Warbeck  !  do  not  deem  me  ungrateful,  that  I  wear 
not  yours  also  :  but — " 

"  Hush  !  "  said  Warbeck  hastily  ;  "I  am  but  as  thy  brother, 
is  not  Otho  more  ?  He  is  young,  brave,  and  beautiful.  God 


l62  THE   PILGRIMS   OF    THE    RHINE. 

grant  that  he  may  deserve  thee,  if  thou  givest  him  so  rich  a  gift 
as  thy  affections." 

"  I  saw  less  of  Otho  in  my  childhood,"  said  Leoline  eva- 
sively ;  "therefore,  his  kindness  of  late  years  seemed  stranger 
to  me  than  thine." 

"  And  thou  wilt  not  then  reject  him  ?  Thou  wilt  be  his 
bride  ? " 

0 

"  And  thy  sister,"  answered  Leoline. 

"  Bless  thee,  mine  own  dear  cousin  !  One  brother's  kiss 
then,  and  farewell  !  Otho  shall  thank  thee  for  himself." 
-  He  kissed  her  forehead  calmly,  and,  turning  away,  plunged 
into  the  thicket  ;  then,  nor  till  then  he  gave  vent  to  such  emo- 
tions, as,  had  Leoline  seen  them,  Otho's  suit  had  been  lost 
forever  ;  for  passionately,  deeply  as  in  her  fond  and  innocent 
heart  she  loved  Otho,  the  happiness  of  Warbeck  was  not  less 
dear  to  her. 

When  the  young  knight  had  recovered  his  self-possession  he 
went  in  search  of  Otho.  He  found  him  alone  in  the  wood, 
leaning  with  folded  arms  against  a  tree,  and  gazing  moodily  on 
the  ground.  Warbeck's  noble  heart  was  touched  at  his  brother's 
dejection. 

"  Cheer  thee,  Otho,"  said  he  ;  "I  bring  thee  no  bad  tidings ; 
I  have  seen  Leoline — I  have  conversed  with  her — nay,  start 
not — she  loves  thee  !  she  is  thine  !  " 

"  Generous — generous  Warbeck  !  "  exclaimed  Otho  ;  and 
he  threw  himself  on  his  brother's  neck.  "  No,  no,"  said  he, 
"  this  must  not  be  ;  thou  hast  the  elder  claim.  I  resign  her 
to  thee.  Forgive  me'  my  waywardness,  brother,  forgive  me  !  " 

"  Think  of  the  past  no  more,"  said  Warbeck  ;  "  the  love  of 
Leoline  is  an  excuse  for  greater  offences  than  thine  :  and  now, 
be  kind  to  her  ;  her  nature  is  soft  and  keen.  /  know  her 
well ;  for  /  have  studied  her  faintest  wish.  Thou  art  hasty 
and  quick  of  ire  ;  but  remember,  that  a  word  wounds  where 
love  is  deep.  For  my  sake,  as  for  hers,  think  more  of  her 
happiness  than  thine  own  ;  now  seek  her — she  waits  to  hear 
from  thy  lips  the  tale  that  sounded  cold  upon  mine." 

With  that  he  left  his  brother,  and,  once  more  re-entering  the 
castle,  he  went  into  the  hall  of  his  ancestors.  His  father  still 
slept ;  he  put  his  hand  on  his  gray  hair,  and  blessed  him  ;  then 
stealing  up  to  his  chamber,  he  braced  on  his  helm  and  armor, 
and  thrice  kissing  the  hilt  of  his  sword,  said  with  a  flushed 
cheek  : 

"  Henceforth  be  thou  my  bride  !  "  Then  passing  from  the 
castle,  he  sped  by  the  most  solitary  paths  down  the  rock. 


THE    PILGRIMS   OF    THE    RHINE.  l6j 

gained  the  Rhine,  and  hailing  one  of  the  numerous  fishermen 
of  the  river,  won  the  opposite  shore  ;  and  alone,  but  not  sad, 
for  his  high  heart  supported  him,  and  Leoline  at  least  was 
happy,  he  hastened  to  Frankfort. 

The  town  was  all  gayety  and  life  :  arms  clanged  at  every 
corner,  the  sounds  of  martial  music,  the  wave  of  banners,  the 
glittering  of  plumed  casques,  the  neighing  of  war-steeds,  all 
united  to  stir  the  blood  and  inflame  the  sense.  St.  Bertrand 
had  lifted  the  sacred  cross  along  the  shores  of  the  Rhine,  and 
the  streets  of  Frankfort  witnessed  with  what  success ! 

On  that  same  day  Warbeck  assumed  the  sacred  badge,  and 
war  enlisted  among  the  knights  of  the  Emperor  Conrad. 

We  must  suppose  some  time  to  have  elapsed,  and  Otho  and 
Leoline  were  not  yet  wedded  ;  for,  in  the  first  fervor  of  his 
gratitude  to  his  brother,  Otho  had  proclaimed  to  his  father 
and  to  Leoline  the  conquest  Warbeck  had  obtained  over  him- 
self ;  and  Leoline,  touched  to  the  heart,  would  not  consent 
that  the  wedding  should  take  place  immediately.  "  Let  him, 
at  least,"  said  she,  "  not  be  insulted  by  a  premature  festivity  ; 
and  give  him  time,  amongst  the  lofty  beauties  he  will  gaze  upon 
in  a  far  country,  to  forget,  Otho,  that  he  once  loved  her  who 
is  the  beloved  of  thee." 

The  old  chief  applauded  this  delicacy  ;  and  even  Otho,  in 
the  first  flush  of  his  feelings  towards  his  brother,  d4d  not  ven- 
ture to  oppose  it.  They  settled,  then,  that  the  marriage  should 
take  place  at  the  end  of  a  year. 

Months  rolled  away,  and  an  absent  and  moody  gloom  settled 
upon  Otho's  brow.  In  his  excursions  with  his  gay  companions 
among  the  neighboring  towns,  he  heard  of  nothing  but  the 
glory  of  the  Crusaders,  of  the  homage  paid  to  the  heroes  of 
the  Cross  at  the  courts  they  visited,  of  the  adventures  of  their 
life,  and  the  exciting. spirit  that  animated  their  war.  In  fact, 
neither  minstrel  nor  priest  suffered  the  theme  to  grow  cold  ; 
and  the  fame  of  those  who  had  gone  forth  to  the  holy  strife 
gave  at  once  emulation  and  discontent  to  the  youths  who 
remained  behind. 

"  And  my  brother  enjoys  this  ardent  and  glorious  life,"  said 
the  impatient  Otho  ;  "  while  I,  whose  arm  is  as  strong,  and 
whose  heart  is  as  bold,  languish  here  listening  to  the  dull  tales 
of  a  hoary  sire  and  the  silly  songs  of  an  orphan  girl."  His 
heart  smote  him  at  the  last  sentence,  but  he  had  already  begun 
to  weary  of  the  gentle  love  of  Leoline.  Perhaps  when  he  had 
no  longer  to  gain  a  triumph  over  a  rival,  the  excitement  palled  ; 
or  perhaps  his  proud  spirit  secretly  chafed  at  being  conquered 


164  THE    PILGRIMS   OF    THE    RHINE. 

by  his  brother  in  generosity,  even  when  outshining  him  in  the 
success  of  love.  ' 

But  poor  Leoline,  once  taught  that  she  was  to  consider  Otho 
her  betrothed,  surrendered  her  heart  entirely  to  his  control. 
His  wild  spirit,  his  dark  beauty,  his  daring  valor,  won  while 
they  awed  her  ;  and  in  the  fitfulness  of  his  nature  were  those 
perpetual  springs  of  hope  and  fear  that  are  the  fountains  of 
ever-agitated  love.  She  saw  with  increasing  grief  the  change 
that  was  growing  over  Otho's  mind  ;  nor  did  she  divine  the 
cause.  "  Surely  I  have  not  offended  him,"  thought  she. 

Among  the  companions  of  Otho  was  one  who  possessed  a 
singular  sway  over  him.  He  was  a  knight  of  that  mysterious 
order  of  the  Temple,  which  exercised  at  one  time  so  great  a 
command  over  the  minds  of  men. 

A  severe  and  dangerous  wound  in  a  brawl  with  an  -English 
knight  had  confined  the  Templar  at  Frankfort,  and  prevented 
his  joining  the  Crusade.  During  his  slow  recovery  he  had 
formed  an  intimacy  with  Otho,  and,  taking  up  his  residence  at 
the  castle  of  Liebenstein,  had  been  struck  with  the  beauty  of 
Leoline.  Prevented  by  his  oath  from  marriage,  he  allowed 
himself  a  double  license  in  love,  and  doubted  not,  could  he 
disengage  the  young  knight  from  his  betrothed,  that  she  would 
add  a  new  conquest  to  the  many  he  had  already  achieved. 
Artfully  therefore  he  painted  to  Otho  the  various  attractions 
of  the  Holy  Cause ;  and,  above  all,  he  failed  not  to  describe, 
with  glowing  colors,  the  beauties  who,  in  the  gorgeous  East, 
distinguished  with  a  prodigal  favor  the  warriors  of  the  Cross. 
Dowries,  unknown  in  the  more  sterile  mountains  of  the  Rhine, 
accompanied  the  hand  of  these  beauteous  maidens  ;  and  even 
a  prince's  daughter  was  not  deemed,  he  said,  too  lofty  a  mar- 
riage for  the  heroes  who  might  win  kingdoms  for  themselves. 

"To  me,"  said  the  Templar,  "such,  hopes  are  eternally 
denied.  But  you,  were  you  not  already  betrothed,  what  for- 
tunes might  await  you  !  " 

By  such  discourses  the  ambition  of  Otho  was  perpetually 
aroused  ;  they  served  to  deepen  his  discontent  at  his  present 
obscurity,  and  to  convert  to  distaste  the  only  solace  it  afforded 
in  the  innocence  and  affection  of  Leoline. 

One  night,  a  minstrel  sought  shelter  from  the  storm  in  the 
halls  of  Liebenstein.  His  visit  was  welcomed  by  the  chief, 
and  he  repaid  the  hospitality  he  had  received  by  the  exercise 
of  his  art.  He  sung  of  the  chase,  and  the  gaunt  hound  started 
from  the  hearth.  He  sung  of  love,  and  Otho,  forgetting  his 
restless  dreams,  approached  to  Leoline,  and  laid  himself  at  her 


THE   PILGRIMS   OF    THE   RHINE.  165 

feet.  Louder  then  and  louder  rose  the  strain.  The  minstrel 
sung  of  war  ;  he  painted  the  feats  of  the  Crusaders  ;  he  plunged 
into  the  thickest  of  the  battle  :  the  steed  neighed  ;  the  trump 
sounded;  and  you  might  have  heard  the  ringing  of  the  steel.  But 
iv hen  he  came  to  signalize  the  names  of  the  boldest  knights,  high 
among  the  loftiest  sounded  the  name  of  Sir  Warbeck  of  Lieb- 
enstein.  Thrice  had  he  saved  the  imperial  banner ;  two 
chargers  slain  beneath  him,  he  had  covered  their  bodies  with 
the  fiercest  of  the  foe.  Gentle  in  the  tent  and  terrible  in  the 
fray,  the  minstrel  should  forget  his  craft  ere  the  Rhine  should 
forget  its  hero.  The  chief  started  from  his  seat.  Leoline 
clasped  the  minstrel's  hand. 

•  Speak — you  have  seen  him — he  lives — he  is  honored  !  " 

"  I,  myself,  am  but  just  from  Palestine,  brave  chief  and 
noble  maiden.  I  saw  the  gallant  knight  of  Liebenstein  at  the 
right  hand  of  the  imperial  Conrad.  And  he,  ladye,  was  the 
only  knight  whom  admiration  shone  upon  without  envy,  its 
shadow.  Who  then  (continued  the  minstrel,  once  more  strik- 
ing his  harp),  who  then  would  remain  inglorious  in  the  hall  ? 
Shall  not  the  banners  of  his  sires  reproach  him  as  they  wave  ? 
And  shall  not  every ^voice  from  Palestine  strike  shame  into  his 
soul?" 

"  Right,"  cried  Otho  suddenly,  and  flinging  himself  at  the 
feet  of  his  father.  "  Thou  hearest  what  my  brother  has  done, 
and  thine  aged  eyes  weep  tears  of  joy.  Shall  /  only  dishonor 
thine  old  age  with  a  rusted  sword  ?  No  !  grant  me,  like  my 
brother,  to  go  forth  with  the  heroes  of  the  Cross  !  " 

"Noble  youth,"  cried  the  harper,  "therein  speaks  the  soul 
of  Sir  Warbeck  ;  hear  him,  Sir  Knight,  hear  the  noble  youth." 

"  Heaven  cries  aloud  in  his  voice,"  said  the  Templar 
solemnly. 

"  My  son,  I  cannot  chide  thine  ardor,"  said  the  old  chief, 
raising  him  with  trembling  hands  ;  "  but  Leoline,  thy  be- 
trothed?" 

Pale  as  a  statue,  with  ears  that  doubted  their  sense  as  they 
drank  in  the  cruel  words  of  her  lover,  stood  the  orphan.  She 
did  not  speak,  she  scarcely  breathed  ;  she  sank  into  her  seat 
and  gazed  upon  the  ground,  till,  at  the  speech  of  the  chief, 
both  maiden  pride  and  maiden  tenderness  restored  her  cotv 
sciousness,  and  she  said  : 

"  7,  uncle  !  Shall  /  bid  Otho  stay  when  his  wishes  bid  him 
depart  ?" 

"  He  will  return  to  thee,  noble  ladye,  covered  with  glory," 
said  the  harper :  but  Otho  said  no  more.  The  touching  voice 


l66  THE   PILGRIMS   Ot*   THE   RHINE. 

of  Leoline  went  to  his  soul ;  he  resumed  his  seat  in  silence  ; 
and  Leoline,  going  up  to  him,  whispered  gently  :  "  Act  as 
though  I  were  not";  and  left  the  hall  to  commune  with  her 
heart  and  to  weep  alone. 

"  I  can  wed  her  before  I  go,"  said  Otho  suddenly,  as  he  sat 
that  night  in  the  Templar's  chamber. 

"  Why,  that  is  true  !  and  leave  thy  bride  in  the  first  week — 
a  hard  trial !  " 

"  Better  than  incur  the  chance  of  never  calling  her  mine. 
Dear,  kind,  beloved  Leoline  !  " 

"Assuredly,  she  deserves  all  from  thee  ;  and,  indeed,  it  is 
no  small  sacrifice,  at  thy  years  and  with  thy  mien,  to  renounce 
forever  all  interest  among  the  noble  maidens  thou  wilt  visit. 
Ah,  from  the  galleries  of  Constantinople  what  eyes  will  look 
down  on  thee,  and  what  ears, llearn ing  that  thou  art  Otho  the 
bridegroom,  will  turn  away,  caring  for  thee  no  more  !  A 
bridegroom  without  a  bride  !  Nay,  man,  much  as  the  Cross 
wants  warriors,  I  am  enough  thy  friend  to  tell  thee,  if  thou 
weddest,  to  stay  peaceably  at  home,  and  forget  in  the  chase 
the  labors  of  war,  from  which  thou  wouldst  strip  the  ambition 
of  love." 

"  I  would  I  knew  what  were  best,"  said  Otho  irresolutely. 
"  My  brother — ha,  shall  he  forever  excel  me  ?  But,  Leoline, 
how  will  she  grieve — she  who  left  him  for  me  !  " 

"  Was  that  thy  fault  ?  "  said  the  Templar  gayly.  "  It  may 
many  times  chance  to  thee  again  to  be  preferred  to  another. 
Troth,  it  is  a  sin  under  which  the  conscience  may  walk  lightly 
enough.  But  sleep  on  it,  Otho ;  my  eyes  grow  heavy." 

The  next  day  Otho  sought  Leoline,  and  proposed  to  her 
that  their  wedding  should  precede  his  parting  ;  but  so  embar- 
rassed was  he,  so  divided  between  two  wishes,  that  Leoline, 
offended,  hurt,  stung  by  his  coldness,  refused  the  proposal  at 
once.  She  left  him  lest  he  should  see  her  weep,  and  then — 
then  she  repented  even  of  her  just  pride  ! 

But  Otho,  striving  to  appease  his  conscience  with  the  belief 
that  hers  now  was  the  sole  fault,  busied  himself  in  preparations 
for  his  departure.  Anxious  to  outshine  his  brother,  he 
departed  not  as  Warbeck,  alone  and  unattended,  but  levying  all 
the  horse,  men,  and  money  that  his  domain  of  Sternfels — 
which  he  had  not  yet  tenanted — would  afford,  he  repaired  to 
Frankfort  at  the  head  of  a  glittering  troop. 

The  Templar,  affecting  a  relapse,  tarried  behind,  and  prom- 
ised to  join  him  at  that  Constantinople  of  which  he  had  so 
loudly  boasted.  Meanwhile  he  devoted  his  whole  powers  of 


THE   PILGRIMS   OF    THE   RHINE.  167 

pleasing  to  console  the  unhappy  orphan.  The  force  of  her 
simple  love  was,  however,  stronger  than  all  his  arts.  In  vain 
he  insinuated  doubts  of  Otho  ;  she  refused  to  hear  them  :  in 
vain  he  poured  with  the  softest  accents  into  her  ear  the 
witchery  of  flattery  and  song  :  she  turned  heedlessly  away  ; 
and  only  pained  by  the  courtesies  that  had  so  little  resem- 
blance to  Otho,  she  shut  herself  up  in  her  chamber,  and  pined 
in  solitude  for  her  forsaker. 

The  Templar  now  resolved  to  attempt  darker  arts  to  obtain 
power  over  her,  when,  fortunately,  he  was  summoned  suddenly 
away  by  a  mission  from  the  Grand  Master,  of  so  high  import, 
that  it  could  not  be  resisted  by  a  passion  stronger  in  his  breast 
than  love — the  passion  of  ambition.  He  left  the  castle  to  its 
solitude ;  and  Otho  peopling  it  no  more  with  his  gay  com- 
panions, no  solitude  could be  more  unfrequently  disturbed. 

Meanwhile,  though,  ever  and  anon,  the  fame  of  Warbeck 
reached  their  ears,  it  came  unaccompanied  with  that  of  Otho  ; 
of  him  they  heard  no  tidings  :  and  thus  the  love  of  the  tender 
orphan  was  kept  alive  by  the  perpetual  restlessness  of  fear. 
At  length  the  old  chief  died,  and  Leoline  was  left  utterly 
alone. 

One  evening  as  she  sat  with  her  maidens  in  the  hall,  the 
ringing  of  a  steed's  hoofs  was  heard  in  the  outer  court ;  a  horn 
sounded,  the  heavy  gates  were  unbarred,  and  a  knight  of  a 
stately  mien  and  covered  with  the  mantle  of  the  Cross,  entered 
the  hall ;  he  stopped  for  one  moment  at  the  entrance,  as  if 
overpowered  by  his  emotion  ;  in  the  next  he  had  clasped 
Leoline  to  his  breast. 

"  Dost  thou  not  recognize  thy  cousin  Warbeck  ? "  He 
doffed  his  casque,  and  she  saw  that  majestic  brow  which, 
unlike  Otho's,  had  never  changed  or  been  clouded  in  its  aspect 
to  her. 

"  The  war  is  suspended  for  the  present,"  said  he.  "  I  learned 
my  father's  death,  and  I  have  returned  home  to  hang  up  my 
banner  in  the  hall,  and  spend  my  days  in  peace." 

Time  and  the  life  of  camps  had  worked  their  change  upon 
Warbeck's  face  ;  the  fair  hair,  deepened  in  its  shade,  was  worn 
/rom  the  temples,  and  disclosed  one  scar  that  rather  aided  the 
beauty  of  a  countenance  that  had  always  something  high  and 
martial  in  its  character  :  but  the  calm  it  once  wore  had  settled 
down  into  sadness  ;  he  conversed  more  rarely  than  before,  and 
though  he  smiled  not  less  often,  nor  less  kindly,  the  smile  had 
more  of  thought,  and  the  kindness  had  forgot  its  passion.  He 
had  apparently  conquered  a  love  that  was  so  early  crossed,  but 


l68  THE   PILGRIMS  OF   THE   RHINE. 

not  that  fidelity  of  remembrance  which  made  Leoline  dearer 
to  him  than  all  others,  and  forbade  him  to  replace  the  images 
he  had  graven  upon  his  soul. 

The  orphan's  lips  trembled  with  the  name  of  Otho,  but  a  cer- 
tain recollection  stifled  even  her  anxiety.  Warbeck  hastened 
to  forestall  her  questions. 

"Otho  was  well,"  he  said,  "and  sojourning  at  Constanti- 
nople ;  he  had  lingered  there  so  long  that  the  crusade  had 
terminated  without  his  aid  :  doubtless  now  he  would  speedily 
return — a  month,  a  week,  nay,  a  day,  might  restore  him  to  her 
side." 

Leoline  was  inexpressibly  consoled,  yet  something  remained 
untold.  Why,  so  eager  for  the  strife  of  the  sacred  tomb,  had 
he  thus  tarried  at  Constantinople  ?  She  wondered,  she  wearied 
conjecture,  but  she  did  not  dare  to  search  farther. 

The  generous  Warbeck  concealed  from  her  that  Otho  led  a 
life  of  the  most  reckless  and  indolent  dissipation — wasting  his 
wealth  in  the  pleasures  of  the  Greek  court,  and  only  occupy- 
ing his  ambition  with  the  wild  schemes  of  founding  a  princi- 
pality in  those  foreign  climes,  which  the  enterprises  of  the 
Norman  adventurers  had  rendered  so  alluring  to  the  knightly 
bandits  of  the  age. 

The  cousins  resumed  their  old  friendship,  and  Warbeck  be- 
lieved that  it  was  friendship  alone.  They  walked  again  among 
the  gardens  in  which  their  childhood  had  strayed  ;  they  sat 
again  on  the  green  turf  whereon  they  had  woven  flowers  ;  they 
looked  down  on  the  eternal  mirror  of  the  Rhine — ah  !  could  it 
have  reflected  the  same  unawakened  freshness  of  their  life's 
early  spring  ! 

The  grave  and  contemplative  mind  of  Warbeck  had  not  been 
so  contented  with  the  honors  of  war,  but  that  it  had  sought 
also  those  calmer  sources  of  emotion  which  were  yet  found 
among  the  sages  of  the  East.  He  had  drunk  at  the  fountain 
of  the  wisdom  of  those  distant  climes,  and  had  acquired  the 
habits  of  meditation  which  were  indulged  by  those  wiser  tribes 
from  which  the  Crusaders  brought  back  to  the  North  the  knowl- 
edge that  was  destined  to  enlighten  their  posterity.  Warbeck, 
therefore,  had  little  in  common  with  the  ruder  chiefs  around  ; 
he  did  not  summon  them  to  his  board,  nor  attend  at  their  noisy 
wassails.  Often  late  at  night,  in  yon  shattered  tower,  his  lonely 
lamp  shone  still  over  the  mighty  stream,  and  his  only  relief  to 
loneliness  was  in  the  presence  and  the  song  of  his  soft  cousin. 

Months  rolled  on,  when  suddenly  a  vague  and  fearful  rumor 
reached  the  castle  of  Liebenstein.  Otho  was  returning  home 


THE    PILGRIMS   OF    THE    RHINE.  169 

to  the  neighboring  tower  of  Sternfels  ;  but  not  alone.  He 
brought  back  with  him  a  Greek  bride  of  surprising  beauty,  and 
dowered  with  almost  regal  wealth.  Leoline  was  the  first  to 
discredit  the  rumor  ;  Leoline  was  soon  the  only  one  who  dis- 
believed. 

Bright  in  the  summer  noon  flashed  the  array  of  horsemen  ; 
far  up  the  steep  ascent  wound  the  gorgeous  cavalcade  ;  the 
lonely  towers  of  Liebenstein  heard  the  echo  of  many  a  laugh 
and  peal  of  merriment.  Otho  bore  home  his  pride  to  the  hall 
of  Sternfels. 

That  night  there  was  a  great  banquet  in  Otho's  castle  ;  the 
lights  shone  from  every  casement  and  music  swellied  loud  and 
ceaselessly  within. 

By  the  side  of  Otho,  glittering  with  the  prodigal  jewels  of 
the  East,  sat  the  Greek.  Her  dark  locks,  her  flashing  eye,  the 
false  colors  of  her  complexion,  dazzled  the  eyes  of  her  guests. 
jOn  her  left  hand  sat  the  Templar. 

"  By  the  holy  rood,"  quoth  the  Templar  gayly,  though  he 
crossed  himself  as  he  spoke,  "  we  shall  scare  the  owls  to-night 
on  those  grim  towers  of  Liebenstein.  Thy  grave  brother,  Sir 
Otho,  will  have  much  to  do  to  comfort  his  cousin  when  she 
sees  what  a  gallant  life  she  would  have  led  with  thee." 

"  Poor  damsel  !  "  said  the  Greek,  with  affected  pity, "  doubt- 
less she  will  now  be  reconciled  to  the  rejected  one.  I  hear  he 
is  a  knight  of  a  comely  mien." 

"  Peace  !  "  said  Otho  sternly,  and  quaffing  a  large  goblet 
of  wine. 

The  Greek  bit  her  lip,  and  glanced  meaningly  at  the  Templar, 
who  returned  the  glance. 

"  Nought  but  a  beauty  such  as  thine  can  win  my  pardon," 
said  Otho,  turning  to  his  bride,  and  gazing  passionately  in  her 
face. 

The  Greek  smiled. 

Well  sped  the  feast,  the  laugh  deepened,  the  wine  circled, 
when  Otho's  eye  rested  on  a  guest  at  the  bottom  of  the  board, 
whose  figure  was  mantled  from  head  to  foot,  and  whose  face 
was  covered  by  a  dark  veil. 

"  Beshrew  me  !  "  said  he,  aloud  ;  "  but  this  is  scarce  courte- 
ous at  our  revel  ;  will  the  stranger  vouchsafe  to  unmask  ?  " 

These  words  turned  all  eyes  to  the  figure,  and  they  who  sat 
next  it  perceived  that  it  trembled  violently  ;  at  length  it  rose, 
and  walking  slowly,  but  with  grace,  to  the  fair  Greek,  it  laid 
beside  her  a  wreath  of  flowers, 

"  It  is  a  simple  gift,  J^dye,"  said  the  stranger,  in  a  voice  of 


I7O  THE    PILGRIMS   OF    THE    RHINE. 

such  sweetness,  that  the  rudest  guest  was  touched  by  it.  "  But 
it  is  all  I  can  offer,  and  the  bride  of  Otho  should  not  be  with- 
out a  gift  at  my  hands.  May  ye  both  be  happy  !  " 

With  these  words,  the  stranger  turned  and  passed  from  the 
hall  silent  as  a  shadow. 

"  Bring  back  the  stranger  ! "  cried  the  Greek,  recovering 
her  surprise.  Twenty  guests  sprang  up  to  obey  her  mandate. 

"  No,  no  !  "  said  Otho,  waving  his  hand  impatiently.  "Touch 
her  not,  heed  her  not,  at  your  peril." 

The  Greek  bent  over  the  flowers  to  conceal  her  anger,  and 
from  amongst  them  dropped  the  brdken  half  of  a  ring.  Otho 
recognized  it  at  once  ;  it  was  the  half  of  that  ring  which  lie 
had  broken  with  his  betrothed.  Alas,  he  required  not  such  a 
sign  to  convince  him  that  that  figure,  so  full  of  ineffable  grace, 
that  touching  voice,  that  simple  action  so  tender  in  its  senti- 
ment, that  gift,  that  blessing,  came  only  from  the  forsaken  and 
forgiving  Leoline  ! 

But  Warbeck,  alone  in  his  solitary  tower,  paced  to  and  fro 
with  agitated  steps.  Deep,  undying  wrath  at  his  brother's 
fasehood,  mingled  with  one  burning,  one  delicious  hope.  He 
confessed  now  that  he  had  deceived  himself  when  he  thought 
his  passion  was  no  more  ;  was  there  any  longer  a  bar  to  his 
union  with  Leoline  ? 

In  that  delicacy  which  was  breathed  into  him  by  his  love,  he 
had  forborne  to  seek,  or  to  .offer  her  the  insult  of  consolation. 
He  felt  that  the  shock  should  be  borne  alone,  and  yet  he  pined, 
he  thirsted,  to  throw  himself  at  her  feet. 

Nursing  these  contending  thoughts,  he  was  aroused  by  a 
knock  at  his  door  ;  he  opened  it — the  passage  was  thronged 
by  Leoline's  maidens  ;  pale,  anxious,  weeping.  Leoline  had 
left  the  castle,  with  but  one  female  attendant  ;  none  knew 
whither — they  knew  too  soon.  From  the  hall  of  Sternfels  she 
had  passed  over  in  the  dark  and  inclement  night,  to  the  valley 
in  which  the  convent  of  Bornhofen  offered  to  the  weary 
of  spirit  and  th.3  broken  of  heart  a  refuge  at  the  shrine  of 
God. 

At  daybreak,  the  next  morning,  Warbeck  was  at  the  con- 
vent's gate.  He  saw  Leoline  :  what  a  change  one  night  of  suf- 
fering had  made  in  that  face,  which  was  the  fountain  of  all 
loveliness  to  him  !  He  clasped  her  in  his  arms  ;  he  wept ;  he 
urged  all  that  love  could  urge  :  he  besought  her  to  accept  that 
heart,  which  had  never  wronged  her  memory  by  a  thought. 
"  Oh,  Leoline  !  didst  thou  not  say  once  that  these  arms  nursed 
thy  childhood ;  that  this  voice  soothed  thine  early  sorrows ! 


THE    PILGRIMS   OF    THE    RHINE.  171 

Ah,  trust  to  them  again  and  forever.     From  a  love  that  forsook 
thee  turn  to  the  love  that  never  swerved." 

"No,"  said  Leoline ;  "no.  What  would  the  chivalry  of 
which  thou  art  the  boast — what  would  they  say  of  thee,  wert 
thou  to  wed  one  affianced  and  deserted,  who  tarried  years  for 
another,  and  brought  to  thine  arms  only  that  heart  which  he 
had  abandoned  ?  No ;  and  even  if  thou,  as  I  know  thou 
wouldst  be,  wert  callous  to  such  wrong  of  thy  high  name,  shall 
I  bring  to  thee  a  broken  heart,  and  bruised  spirit?  Shalt  thou 
wed  sorrow  and  not  joy  ?  And  shall  sighs  that  will  not  cease, 
and  tears  that  may  not  be  dried,  be  the  only  dowry  of  thy 
bride  ?  Thou,  too,  for  whom  all  blessings  should  be  ordained  ? 
No,*  forget  me;  forget  thy  poor  Leoline  !  She  hath  nothing 
but  prayers  for  thee." 

In  vain  Warbeck  pleaded  ;  in  vain  he  urged  all  that  passion 
and  truth  could  urge  ;  the  springs  of  earthly  love  were  forever 
dried  up  in  the  orphan's  heart,  and  her  resolution  was  immov- 
able ;  she  tore  herself  from  his  arms,  and  the  gate  of  the  con- 
vent creaked  harshly  on  his  ear. 

A  new  and  stern  emotion  now  wholly  possessed  him  ;  though 
naturally  mild  and  gentle,  he  cherished  anger,  when  once  it 
was  aroused,  with  the  strength  of  a  calm  mind.  Leoline's  tears, 
her  sufferings,  her  wrongs,  her  uncomplaining  spirit,  the  change 
already  stamped  upon  her  face,  all  cried  aloud  to  him  for 
vengeance.  "  She  is  an  orphan,"  said  he  bitterly  ;  "  she  hath 
none  to  protect,  to  redress  her,  save  me  alone.  My  father's 
charge  over  her  forlorn  youth  descends  of  right  to  me.  What 
matters  it  whether  her  forsaker  be  my  brother  ? — he  is  her  foe. 
Hath  he  not  crushed  her  heart  ?  Hath  he  not  consigned 
her  to  sorrow  till  the  grave  ?  And  with  what  insult  ;  no 
warning,  no  excuse  ;  with  lewd  wassailers  keeping  revel  for 
his  new  bridals  in  the  hearing — before  the  sight — of  his 
betrothed  !  Enough  !  the  time  hath  come,  when,  to  use  his  own 
words,  '  One  of  us  two  must  fall '  ?  "  He  half  drew  his  sword 
as  he  spoke,  and  thrusting  it  back  violently  into  the  sheath, 
strode  home  to  his  solitary  castle.  The  sound  of  steeds  and 
of  the  hunting-horn  met  him  at  his  portal  ;  the  bridal  train  of 
Sternfels,  all  mirth  and  gladness,  were  parting  for  the  chase. 

That  evening  a  knight  in  complete  armor  entered  the 
banquet-hall  of  Sternfels,  and  defied  Otho,  on  the  part  of 
Warbeck  of  Liebenstein,  to  mortal  combat. 

Even  the  Templar  was  startled  by  so  unnatural  a  challenge  ; 
but  Otho,  reddening,  took  up  the  gage,  and  the  day  and  spot 
were  fixed.  Discontented,  wroth  with  himself,  a  savage  glad- 


172  THE    PILGRIMS    OF    THE    RHINE. 

ness  seized  him  ;  he  longed  to  wreak  his  desperate  feelings 
even  on  his  brother.  Nor  had  he  ever  in  his  jealous  heart 
forgiven  that  brother  his  virtues  and  his  renown. 

At  the  appointed  hour  the  brothers  met  as  foes.  Warbeck's 
visor  was  up,  and  all  the  settled  sternness  of  his  soul  was 
stamped  upon  his  brow.  But  Otho,  more  willing  to  brave  the 
arm  than  to  face  the  front  of  his  brother,  kept  his  visor  down  ; 
the  Templar  stood  by  him  with  folded  arms.  It  was  a  study 
in  human  passions  to  his  mocking  mind.  Scarce  had  the  first 
trump  sounded  to  this  dread  conflict,  when  a  new  actor 
entered  on  the  scene.  The  rumor  of  so  unprecedented  an 
event  had  not  failed  to  reach  the  convent  of  Bornhofen  ;  and 
now,  two  by  two,  came  the  sisters  of  the  holy  shrine,  and  the 
armed  men  made  way,  as  with  trailing  garments  and  veiled 
faces  they  swept  along  into  the  very  lists.  At  that  moment 
one  from  amongst  them  left  her  sisters  with  a  slow,  -majestic 
pace,  and  paused  not  till  she  stood  right  between  the  brother 
foes. 

"  Warbeck,"  she  said  in  a  hollow  voice,  that  curdled  up  his 
dark  spirit  as  it  spoke,  "  is  it  thus  thou  wouldst  prove  thy  love, 
and  maintain  thy  trust  over  the  fatherless  orphan  whom  thy 
sire  bequeathed  to  thy  care  ?  Shall  I  luve  murder  on  my  soul  ?  " 
At  that  question  she  paused,  and  those  who  heard  it  were 
struck  dumb  and  shuddered.  "  The  murder  of  one  man  by 
the  hand  of  bis  own  brother  !  Away,  Warbeck  !  /  command." 

"  Shall  I  i^  get  thy  wrongs,  Leoline  ?  "  said  Warbeck. 

"  Wrongs  !  they  united  me  to  God  !  They  are  forgiven, 
they  are  no  more.  Earth  has  deserted  me,  but  Heaven  hath 
taken  me  to  its  arms — shall  I  murmur  at  the  change  ?  And 
thou,  Otho  (here  her  voice  faltered) — thou,  does  thy  con- 
science smite  thee  not  ? — wouldst  thou  atone  for  robbing  me 
of  hope  by  barring  against  me  the  future  ?  Wretch  that  I 
should  be,  could  I  dream  of  mercy — could  I  dream  of  comfort, 
if  thy  brother  fell  by  thy  sword  in  my  cause  ?  Otho,  I  have 
pardoned  thee,  and  blessed  thee  and  thine.  Once,  perhaps, 
thou  didst  love  me  ;  remember  how  I  loved  thee — cast  down 
thine  arms." 

Otho  gazed  at  the  veiled  form  before  him.  Where  had  the 
soft  Leoline  learned  to  command  ?  He  turned  to  his  brother  ; 
he  felt  all  that  he  had  inflicted  upon  both  ;  and  casting  his 
sword  upon  the  ground,  he  knelt  at  the  feet  of  Leoline,  and 
kissed  her  garment  with  a  devotion  that  votary  never  lavished 
on  a  holier  saint. 

The  spell  that  lay  over  the  warriors  around  was  broken ; 


THE    PILGRIMS   OF    THE    RHINE.  IJ3 

there  was  one  loud  cry  of  congratulation  and  joy.  "  And  thou, 
Warbeck  !  "  said  Leoline,  turning  to  the  spot  where,  still 
motionless  and  haughty,  Warbeck  stood. 

"  Have  I  ever  rebelled  against  thy  will  ?  "  said  he  softly  ; 
and  buried  the  point  of  his  sword  in  the  earth.  "Yet,  Leo- 
line,  yet,"  added  he,  looking  at  his  kneeling  brother,  "  yet  art 
thou  already  better  avenged  than  by  this  steel  !  " 

"  Thou  art  !  thou  art  !  "  cried  Otho,  smiting  his  breast  ;  and 
slowly,  and  scarce  noting  the  crowd  that  fell  back  from  his 
path,  Warbeck  left  the  lists. 

Leoline  said  no  more  ;  her  divine  errand  was  fulfilled.  She 
looked  long  and  wistfully  after  the  stately  form  of  the  knight 
of  Liebenstein,  and  then,  with  a  slight  sigh,  she  turned  to 
Otho  :  "  This  is  the  last  time  we  shall  meet  on  earth.  Peace 
be  with  us  all." 

She  then,  with  the  same  majestic  and  collected  bearing, 
passed  on  towards  the  sisterhood  ;  and  as,  in  the  same  solemn 
procession,  they  glided  back  towards  the  convent,  there  was 
not  a  man  present — no,  not  even  the  hardened  Templar — who 
would  not,  like  Otho,  have  bent  his  knee  to  Leoline. 

Once  more  Otho  plunged  into  the  wild  revelry  of  the  age  ; 
his  castle  was  thronged  with  guests,  and  night  after  night  the 
lighted  halls  shone  down  athwart  the  tranquil  Rhine.  The 
beauty  of  the  Greek,  the  wealth  of  Otho,  the  fame  of  the 
Templar^  attracted  all  the  chivalry  from  far  and  near.  Never 
had  the  banks  of  the  Rhine  known  so  hospitable  a  lord  as  the 
knight  of  Sternfels.  Yet  gloom  seized  him  in  the  midst  of 
gladness,  and  the  revel  was  welcome  only  as  the  escape  from 
remorse.  The  voice  of  scandal,  however,  soon'  began  to 
mingle  with  that  of  envy  at  the  pomp  o.f  Otho.  The  fair  Greek, 
it  was  said,  weary  of  her  lord,  lavished  her  smiles  on  others  : 
the  young  and  the  fair  were  always  most  acceptable  at  the 
castle  ;  and,  above  all,  her  guilty  love  for  the  Templar  scarcely 
affected  disguise.  Otho  alone  appeared  unconscious  of  the 
rumor  ;  and  though  he  had  begun  to  neglect  his  bride,  he. 
relaxed  not  in  his  intimacy  with  the  Templar. 

It  was  noon,  and  the  Greek  was  sitting  in  her  bower  alone 
with  her  suspected  lover ;  the  rich  perfumes  of  the  East 
mingled  with  the  fragrance  of  flowers,  and  various  luxuries, 
unknown  till  then  in  those  northern  shores,  gave  a  soft  and 
effeminate  character  to  the  room. 

"  I  tell  thee,"  said  the  Greek  petulantly,  "  that  he  begins  to 
suspect ;  that  I  have  seen  him  watch  thee,  and  mutter  as  he 
watched,  and  play  with  the  hilt  of  his  dagger.  BeV^r  let 


174  THE   PILGRIMS   OF    THE   RHINE. 

us  fly  ere  it  is  too  late,  for  his  vengeance  would  be  terrible 
were  it  once  roused  against  us.  Ah,  why  did  I  ever  forsake 
my  own  sweet  land  for  these  barbarous  shores  !  There,  love  is 
not  considered  eternal,  nor  inconstancy  a  crime  worthy  death." 

"  Peace,  pretty  one  !  "  said  the  Templar  carelessly  ;  "  thou 
knowest  not  the  laws  of  our  foolish  chivalry.  Thinkest  thou 
I  could  fly  from  a  knight's  hall  like  a  thief  in  the  night  ? 
Why,  verily,  even  the  red  cross  would  not  cover  such  dishonor'. 
If  thou  fearest  that  thy  dull  lord  suspects,  let  us  part.  The 
emperor  hath  sent  to  me  from  Frankfort.  Ere  evening  I  might 
be  on  my  way  thither." 

"  And  I  left  to  brave  the  barbarian's  revenge  alone  ?  Is  this 
thy  chivalry  ? " 

"  Nay,  prate  not  so  wildly,"  answered  the  Templar. 
"Surely,  when  the  object  of  his  suspicion  is  gone,  thy  woman's 
art  and  thy  Greek  wiles  can  easily  allay  the  jealous  fiend.  Do 
I  not  know  thee,  Glycera  ?  Why,  thou  wouldst  fool  all  men — 
save  a  Templar." 

"  And  thou,  cruel,  wouldst  thou  leave  me  ?  "  said  the  Greek, 
weeping.  "  How  shall  I  live  without  thee  ?  " 

The  Templar  laughed  slightly.  "  Can  such  eyes  ever  weep 
without  a  comforter  ?  But  farewell  ;  I  must  not  be  found  with 
thee.  To-morrow  I  depart  for  Frankfort ;  we  shall  meet 
again." 

As  soon  as  the  door  closed  on  the  Templar,  the  Greek  rose, 
and  pacing  the  room,  said  :  "  Selfish,  selfish  !  how  could  I 
ever  trust  him  ?  Yet  I  dare  not  brave  Otho  alone.  Surely  it 
was  his  step  that  disturbed  us  in  our  yesterday's  interview. 
Nay,  I  will  fly.  I  can  never  want  a  companion." 

She  clapped  her  hands  ;  a  young  page  appeared  ;  she  threw 
herself  on  her  seat  and  wept  bitterly. 

The  page  approached,  and  love  was  mingled  with  his  com- 
passion. 

"Why  weepest  ,thou,  dearest  lady?  "said  he;  "Is  there 
aught  in  which  Conrad's  services — services! — ah,  thou  hast 
read  his  heart — his  devotion  may  avail  ?  " 

Otho  had  wandered  out  the  whole  day  alone  ;  his  vassals 
had  observed  that  his  brow  was  more  gloomy  than  its  wont, 
for  he  usually  concealed  whatever  might  prey  within.  Some 
of  the  most  confidential  of  his  servitors  he  had  conferred  with, 
and  the  conference  had  deepened  the  shadow  on  his  counte- 
nance. He  returned  at  twilight  ;  the  Greek  did  not  honor 
the  repast  with  her  presence.  She  was  unwell,  and  not  to  be 
disturbed.  The  gay  Templar  was  the  life  of  the  board. 


THE   PILGRIMS   OF    THE    RHINE.  175 

"  Thou  carriest  a  sad  brow  to-day,  Sir  Otho,"  said  he ;  "  good 
faith,  thou  hast  caught  it  from  the  air  of  Liebenstein." 

"  I  have  something  troubles  me,"  answered  Otho,  forcing  a 
smile,  "  which  I  would  fain  impart  to  thy  friendly  bosom. 
The  night  is  clear  and  the  moon  is  up,  let  us  forth  alone  into 
the  garden." 

The  Templar  rose,  and  he  forgot  not  to  gird  on  his  sword 
as  he  followed  the  knight. 

Otho  led  the  way  to  one  of  the  most  distant  terraces  that 
overhung  the  Rhine. 

"  Sir  Templar,"  said  he,  pausing,  "  answer  me  one  question 
on  thy  knightly  honor.  Was  it  thy  step  that  left  my  lady's 
bower  yester-eve  at  vesper  ? " 

Startled  by  so  sudden  a  query,  the  wily  Templar  faltered  in 
his  reply. 

The  red  blood  mounted  to  Otho's  brow.  "  Nay,  lie  not,  Sir 
Knight ;  these  eyes,  thanks  to  God  !  have  not  witnessed,  but 
these  ears  have  heard  from  others  of  my  dishonor." 

As  Otho  spoke,  the  Templar's  eye,  resting  on  the  water, 
perceived  a  boat  rowing  fast  over  the  Rhine  ;  the  distance 
forbade  him  to  see  more  than  the  outline  of  two  figures  within 
it.  "  She  was  right,"  thought  he  ;  "  perhaps  that  boat  already 
bears  her  from  the  danger." 

Drawing  himself  up  to  the  full  height  of  his  tall  stature,  the 
Templar  replied  haughtily  : 

"  Sir  Otho  of  Sternfels,  if  thou  hast  deigned  to  question  thy 
vassals,  obtain  from  them  only  an  answer.  It  is  not  to  contra- 
dict such  minions  that  the  knights  of  the  Temple  pledge  their 
word  !  " 

"Enough,"  cried  Otho,  losing  patience,  and  striking  the 
Templar  with  his  clenched  hand.  "  Draw,  traitor,  draw  !  " 

Alone  in  his  lofty  tower  Warbeck  watched  the  night  deepen 
over  the  heavens,  and  communed  mournfully  with  himself. 
"  To  what  end,"  thought  he,  "  have  these  strong  affections, 
these  capacities  of  love,  this  yearning  after  sympathy,  been 
given  me?  Unloved  and  unknown  I  walk  to  my  grave, 
and  all  the  nobler  mysteries  of  my  heart  are  forever  to  be 
untold." 

Thus  musing,  he  heard  not  the  challenge  of  the  warder  OD 
the  wall,  or  the  unbarring  of  the  gate  below,  or  the  tread  of 
footsteps  along  the  winding  stair  ;  the  door  was  thrown  sud- 
denly open,  and  Otho  stood  before  him.  "  Come,"  he  said,  in 
a  low  voice  trembling  with  passion  ;  "  come,  I  will  show  inee 
that  which  shall  glad  thine  heart.  Twofold  is  Leoline  avenged." 


176  THE    PILGRIMS   OF    THE    RHINE. 

Warbeck  looked  in  amazement  on  a  brother  he  had  not  met 
since  they  stood  in  arms  each  against  the  other's  life,  and  he 
now  saw  that  the  arm  that  Otho  extended  to  him  dripped  with 
blood,  trickling  drop  by  drop  upon  the  floor. 

"  Come,"  said  Otho,  "  follow  me  ;  it  is  my  last  prayer. 
Come,  for  Leoline's  sake,  come." 

At  that  name  Warbeck  hesitated  no  longer  ;  he  girded  on 
his  sword,  and  followed  his  brother  down  the  stairs  and  through 
the  castle  gate.  The  porter  scarcely  believed  his  eyes  when 
he  saw  the  two  brothers,  so  long  divided,  go  forth  at  that  hour 
alone,  and  seemingly  in  friendship. 

Warbeck,  arrived  at  that  epoch  in  the  feelings  when  noth- 
ing stuns,  followed  with  silent  steps  the  rapid  strides  of  his 
brother.  The  two  castles,  as  you  are  aware,  are  scarce  a 
stone's  throw  from  each  other,  In  a  few  minutes  Otho  paused 
at  an  open  space  in  one  of  the  terraces  of  Sternfels,  on  which  the 
moon  shone  bright  and  steady.  "Behold!"  he  said,  in  a 
ghastly  voice,  "behold  !  "  and  Warbeck  saw  on  the  sward  the 
corpse  of  the  Templar,  bathed  with  the  blood  that  even  still 
poured  fast  and  warm  from  his  heart. 

"  Hark  !  "  said  Otho.  "  He  it  was  who  first  made  me  waver 
in  my  vows  to  Leoline  ;  he  persuaded  me  to  wed  yon  whited 
falsehood.  Hark!  he,  who  had  thus  wronged  my  real  love, 
dishonored  me  with  my  faithless  bride,  and  thus — thus — 
thus  " — as  grinding  his  teeth,  he  spurned  again  and  again  the 
dead  body  of  the  Templar — "thus  Leoline  and  myself  are 
avenged  !  " 
'"And  thy  wife  ?  "  said  Warbeck  pityingly. 

"  Fled — fled  with  a  hireling  page.  l£  is.  well  !  She  was  not 
worth  the  sword  that  was  once  belted  on— by  Leoline." 

The  tradition,  dear  Gertrude,  proceeds  to  tell  us  that  Otho, 
though  often  menaced  by  the  rude  justice  of  the  day  for  the 
death  of  the  Templar,  defied  and  escaped  the  menace.  On 
the  very  night  of  his  revenge  a  long,  delirious  illness  seized 
him  ;  the  generous  Warbeck  forgave,  forgot  all,  save  that  he 
had  been  once  consecrated  by  Leoline's  love.  He  tended  him 
through  his  sickness,  and  when  he  recovered,  Otho  was  an  al- 
tered man.  He  forswore  the  comrades  he  had  once  courted, 
the  revels  he  had  once  led.  The  halls  of  Sternfels  were  deso- 
late as  those  of  Liebenstein.  The  only  companion  Otho  sought 
was  Warbeck,  and  Warbeck  bore  with  him.  They  had  no  topic 
in  common,  for  on  one  subject  Warbeck  at  least  felt  too  deeply 
ever  to  trust  himself  to  speak  :  yet  did  a  strange  and  secret 
sympathy  reunite  them.  They  had  at  least  a  common  sorrow  ; 


THE   PILGRIMS    OF    THE    RHINE.  177 

often  they  were  seen  wandering  together  by  the  solitary  banks 
of  the  river,  or  amidst  the  woods,  without  apparently  inter- 
changing word  or  sign.  Otho  died  first,  and  still  in  the  prime 
of  youth  ;  and  Warbeck  was  now  left  companionless.  In  vain 
the  imperial  court  wooed  him  to  its  ^pleasures  ;  in  vain  the 
camp  proffered  him  the  oblivion  of  renown.  Ah  !  could  he 
tear  himself  from  a  spot  where  morning  and  night  he  could 
see  afar,  amidst  the  valley,  the  roof  that  sheltered  Leoline,  and 
on  which  every  copse,  every  turf,  reminded  him  of  former 
days?  His  solitary  life,  his  midnight  vigils,  strange  scrolls 
about  his  chamber,  obtained  him  by  degrees  the  repute  of  cul- 
tivating the  darker  arts  ;  and  shunning,  he  became  shunned 
by,  all.  But  still  it  was  sweet  to  hear  from  time  to  time  of  the 
increasing  sanctity  of  her  in  whom  he  had  treasured  up  his  last 
thoughts  of  earth.  She  it  was  who  healed  the  sick  ;  she  it  was 
who  relieved  the  poor  ;  and  the  superstition  of  that  age  brought 
pilgrims  from  afar  to  the  altars  that  she  served. 

Many  years  afterwards,  a  band  of  lawless  robbers,  who,  ever 
and  anon,  broke  from  their  mountain  fastnesses  to  pillage  and 
to  desolate  the  valleys  of  the  Rhine, — who  spared  neither  sex 
nor  age  ;  neither  tower  nor  hut  ;  nor  even  the  houses  of  God 
himself, — laid  waste  the  territories  round  Bornhofen,  and  de- 
manded treasure  from  the  convent.  The  abbess,  of  the  bold 
lineage  of  Rudesheim,  refused  the  sacrilegious  demand  ;  the 
convent  was  stormed  ;  its  vassels  resisted  ;  the  robbers,  en- 
ured to  slaughter,  won  the  day  ;  already  the  gates  were  forced, 
when  a  knight,  at  the  head  of  a  small  but  hardy  troop,  rushed 
down  from  the  mountain  side,  and  turned  the  tide  of  the  fray. 
Wherever  his  sword  flashed,  fell  a  foe.  Wherever  his  war-cry 
sounded,  was  a  space  of  dead  men  in  the  thick  of  the  battle. 
The  fight  was  won  ;  the  convent  saved  ;  the  abbess  and  the 
sisterhopd  came  forth  to  bless  their  deliverer.  Laid  under  an 
aged  oak,  he  was  bleeding  fast  to  death  ;  his  head  was  bare 
and  his  locks  were  gray,  but  scarcely  yet  with  years.  One  only 
of  the  sisterhood  recognized  that  majestic  face  ;  one  bathed 
his  parched  lips  ;  one  held  his  dying  hand  ;  and  in  Leoline's 
presence  passed  away  the  faithful  spirit  of  the  last  lord  of  Lieb- 
eristein  ! 

"  Oh  !  "  said  Gertrude,  through  her  tears  ;  "surely  you  must 
have  altered  the  facts — surely — surely — it  must  have  been  im- 
possible for  Leoline,  with  a  woman's  heart,  to  have  loved  Otho 
more  than  Warbeck  ?  " 

"  My  child,"  said  Vane,  "  so  think  women  when  they  read  a 
tale  of  love,  and  see  the  whole  heart  bared  before  them  ;  but 


178  THE    PILGRIMS   OF    THE    RHINE. 

not  so  act  they  in  real  life,  when  they  see  only  the  surface  of 
character,  and  pierce  not  its  depths — until  it  is  too  late  !  " 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

THE    IMMORTALITY  OF  THE    SOUL. — A  COMMON    INCIDENT    NOT 
BEFORE    DESCRIBED — TREVYLYAN    AND    GERTRUDE. 

THE  day  now  grew  cool  as  it  waned  to  its  decline,  and  the 
breeze  came  sharp  upon  the  delicate  frame  of  the  sufferer. 
They  resolved  to  proceed  no  further  ;  and  as  they  carried  with 
them  attendants  and  baggage,  which  rendered  their  route 
almost  independent  of  the  ordinary  accommodation,  they 
steered  for  the  opposite  shore,  and  landed  at  a  village  beauti- 
fully sequestered  in  a  valley,  and  where  they  fortunately 
obtained  a  lodging  not  often  met  with  in  the  regions  of  the 
picturesque. 

When  Gertrude,  at  an  early  hour,  retired  to  bed,  Vane  and 

Du e  fell  into  speculative  conversation  upon  the  nature 

of  man.  Vane's  philosophy  was  of  a  quiet  and  passive  scep- 
ticism ;  the  physician  dared  more  boldly,  and  rushed  from 
doubt  to  negation.  The  attention  of  Trevylyan,  as  he  sat 
apart  and  musing,  was  arrested  in  despite  of  himself.  He 
listened  to  an  argument  in  which  he  took  no  share  ;  but  which 
suddenly  inspired  him  with  an  interest  in  that  awful  subject 
which,  in  the  heat  of  youth  and  the  occupations  of  the  world, 
had  never  been  so  prominently  called  forth  before. 

"What !  "  thought  he,  with  unutterable  anguish,  as  he  listened 
to  the  earnest  vehemence  of  the  Frenchman  and  the  tranquil 
assent  of  Vane  ;  "  if  this  creed  were  indeed  true — if  there  be 
no  other  world — Gertrude  is  lost  to  me  eternally  ;  through  the 
dread  gloom  of  death  there  would  break  forth  no  star  !  " 

That  is  a  peculiar  incident  that  perhaps  occurs  to  us  all  at 
times,  but  which  I  have  never  found  expressed  in  books — viz., 
to  hear  a  doubt  of  futurity  at  the  very  moment  in  which  the 
present  is  most  overcast ;  and  to  find  at  once  this  world 
stripped  of  its  delusion,  and  the  next  of  its  consolation.  It  is 
perhaps  for  others,  rather  than  ourselves,  that  the  fond  heart 
requires  an  Hereafter.  The  tranquil  rest,  the  shadow,  and  the 
silence,  the  mere  pause  of  the  wheel  of  life,  have  no  terror  for 
the  wise,  who  know  the  due  value  of  the  world  : 
"  After  the  billows  of  a  stormy  sea. 
Sweet  is  at  last  the  haven  of  repose. 

But  not  so  when  that  stillness  is  to  divide  us  eternally  from 


THE    PILGRIMS   OF    THE    RHINE.  179 

others ;  when  those  we  have  loved  with  all  the  passion,  the 
devotion,  the  watchful  sanctity  of  the  weak  human  heart,  are 
to  exist  to  us  no  more  !  When,  after  long  years  of  desertion 
and  widowhood  on  earth,  there  is  to  be  no  hope  of  reunion 
in  that  INVISIBLE  beyond  the  stars ;  when  the  torch,  not  of 
life  only,  but  of  love,  is  to  be  quenched  in  the  Dark  Fountain  ; 
and  the  grave,  that  we  would  fain  hope  is  the  great  restorer  of 
broken  ties,  is  but  the  dumb  seal  of  hopeless,  utter,  inexorable 
separation !  And  it  is  this  thought,  this  sentiment,  which 
makes  religion  out  of  woe,  and  teaches  belief  to  the  mourning 
heart,  that  in  the  gladness  of  united  affections  felt  not  the 
necessity  of  a  heaven  !  To  how  many  is  the  death  of  the  be- 
loved the  parent  of  faith  ! 

Stung  by  his  thoughts  Trevylyan  rose  abruptly,  and  stealing 
from  the  lowly  hostelry,  walked  forth  amidst  the  serene  and 
deepening  night ;  from  the  window  of  Gertrude's  room  the 
light  streamed  calm  on  the  purple  air. 

With  uneven  steps  and  many  a  pause,  he  paced  to  and  fro 
beneath  the  window,  and  gave  the  rein  to  his  thoughts.  How 
intensely. he  felt  the  ALL  that  Gertrude  was  to  him  !  How 
bitterly  he  foresaw  the  change  in  his  lot  and  character  that 
her  death  would  work  out !  For  who  that  met  him  in  later 
years  ever  dreamed  that  emotions  so  soft,  and  yet  so  ardent, 
had  visited  one  so  stern  ?  Who  could  have  believed  that  time 
was,  when  the  polished  and  cold  Trevylyan  had  kept  the  vigils 
he  now  held  below  the  chamber  of  one  so  little  like  himself  as 
Gertrude,  in  that  remote  and  solitary  hamlet.  ;  shut  in  by  the 
haunted  mountains  of  the  Rhine,  and  beneath  the  moonlight 
of  the  romantic  North  ? 

While  thus  engaged,  the  light  in  Gertrude's  room  was  sud- 
denly extinguished  ;  it  is  impossible  to  express  how  much  that 
trivial  incident  affected  him  !  It  was  like  an  emblem  of  what 
was  to  come  ;  the  light  had  been  the  only  evidence  of  life  that 
broke  upon  that  hour,  and  he  was  now  left  alone  with  the 
shades  of  night.  Was  not  this  like  the  herald  of  Gertrude's 
own  death  ;  the  extinction  of  the  only  living  ray  that  broke 
upon  the  darkness  of  the  world  ? 

His  anguish,  his  presentiment  of  utter  desolation,  increased. 
He  groaned  aloud  ;  he  dashed  his  clenched  hand  to  his  breast ; 
large  and  cold  drops  of  agony  stole  down  his  brow.  "  Father," 
he  exclaimed  with  a  struggling  voice,  "  let  this  cup  pass  from 
me  !  Smite  my  ambition  to  the  root ;  curse  me  with  poverty, 
shame,  and  bodily  disease  ;  but  leave  me  this  one  solace,  this 
one  companion  of  my  fate  !  " 


l8o  THE    PILGRIMS   OF    THE    RHINE. 

At  this  moment  Gertrude's  window  opened  gently,  and  he 
heard  her  accents  steal  soothingly  upon  his  ear. 

'  Is  not  that  your  voice,  Albert  ?  "  said  she  softly.  "  I 
heard  it  just  as  I  lay  down  to  rest,  and  could  not  sleep  while 
you  were  thus  exposed  to  the  damp  night  air.  You  do  not 
answer  ;  surely  it  is  your  voice  :  when  did  I  mistake  it  for 
another's  ?  " 

Mastering  with  a  violent  effort  his  emotions,  Trevylyan 
answered,  with  a  sort  of  convulsive  gayety  : 

"  Why  come  to  these  shores,  dear  Gertrude,  unless  you  are 
honored  with  the  chivalry  that  belongs  to  them  ?  What  wind, 
what  blight  can  harm  me  while  within  the  circle  of  your 
presence  and  what  sleep  can  bring  me  dreams  so  dear  as  the 
waking  thought  of  you  ?" 

"  It  is  cold,"  said  Gertrude,  shivering  ;  "  come  in,  dear 
Albert,  I  beseech  you,  and  I  will  thank  you  to-morrow." 
Gertrude's  voice  was  choked  by  the  hectic  cough,  that  went 
like  an  arrow  to  Trevylyan's  heart ;  and  he  felt  in  that  her 
anxiety  for  him  she  was  now  exposing  her  own  frame  to  the 
unwholesome  night. 

He  spoke  no  more,  but  hurried  within  the  house  ;  and  when 
the  gray  light  of  morn  broke  upon  his  gloomy  features,  hag- 
gard from  the  want  of  sleep,  it  might  have  seemed,  in  that 
dim  eye  and  fast  sinking  cheek,  as  if  the  lovers  were  not  to 
be  divided  even  by  death  itself. 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

IN  WHICH  THE  READER  WILL  LEARN  HOW  THE  FAIRIES  WERE 
RECEIVED  BY  THE  SOVEREIGNS  OF  THE  MINES. — THE  COM- 
PLAINT OF  THE  LAST  OF  THE  FAUNS. — THE  RED  HUNTS- 
MAN.— THE  STORM. — DEATH. 

IN  the  deep  valley  of  Ehrenthal,  the  metal  kings — the  Prince 
of  the  Silver  Palaces,  the  Gnome  Monarch  of  the  dull  Lead 
Mine,  the  President  of  the  Copper  United  States,  held  a  court 
to  receive  the  fairy  wanderers  from  the  island  of  Nonnewerth. 

The  prince  was  there,  in  a  gallant  hunting  suit  of  oak  leaves, 
in  honor  to  England  ;  and  wore  a  profusion  of  fairy  orders, 
which  had  been  instituted  from  time  to  time,  in  honor  of  the 
human  poets  that  had  celebrated  the  spiritual  and  ethereal 
tribes.  Chief  of  these,  sweet  Dreamer  of  the  Midsummer 
Night's  Dream,  was  the  badge  crystallized  from  the  dews  that 
rose  above  the  whispering  reeds  of  Avon,  on  the  night  of  thy 


THE    PILGRIMS   OF   THE    RHINE.  l8l 

birth — the  great  epoch  of  the  intellectual  world  !  Nor  wert 
thou,  O  beloved  Musaeus  !  nor  thou,  dim-dreaming  Tieck  ! 
nor  were  ye,  the  wild  imaginer  of  the  bright-haired  Undine, 
and  the  wayward  spirit  that  invoked  for  the  gloomy  Manfred 
the  Witch  of  the  breathless  Alps,  and  the  spirits  of  earth  and 
air  ! — nor  were  ye  without  the  honors  of  fairy  homage  !  Your 
memory  may  fade  from  the  heart  of  man,  and  the  spells  of 
new  enchanters  may  succeed  to  the  charm  you  once  wove  over 
the  face  of  the  common  world  ;  but  still  in  the  green  knolls  of 
the  haunted  valley,  and  the  deep  shade  of  forests,  and  the 
starred  palaces  of  air,  ye  are  honored  by  the  beings  of  your 
dreams,  as  demigods  and  kings  !  Your  graves  are  tended  by 
invisible  hands,  and  the  places  of  your  birth  are  hallowed  by 
no  perishable  worship. 

Even  as  I  write  ;*  far  away  amidst  the  hills  of  Scotland, 
and  by  the  forest  thou  hast  clothed  with  immortal  verdure; 
thou,  the  wakerof  "  the  Harp  by  lone  Glenfillan's  spring,"  art 
passing  from  the  earth  which  thou  hast  "  painted  with  delight." 
And,  such  are  the  chances  of  mortal  fame,  our  children's 
children  may  raise  new  idols  on  the  site  of  thy  holy  altar, 
and  cavil  where  their  sires  adored  ;  but  for  thee  the  mer- 
maid of  the  ocean  shall  wail  in  her  coral  caves  ;  and  the 
sprite  that  lives  in  the  waterfalls  shall  mourn  !  Strange  shapes 
shall  hew  thy  monument  in  the  recesses  of  the  lonely  rocks ; 
ever  by  moonlight  shall  the  fairies  pause  from  their  roundel 
when  some  wild  note  of  their  minstrelsy  reminds  them  of  thine 
own — ceasing  from  their  revelries,  to  weep  for  the  silence  of 
that  mighty  lyre,  which  breathed  alike  a  revelation  of  the  mys- 
teries of  spirits  and  of  men\' 

The  King  of  the  Silver  Mines  sat  in  a  cavern  in  the  valley, 
through  which  the  moonlight  pierced  its  way  and  slept  in 
shadow  on  the  soil  shining  with  metals  wrought  into  unnum- 
bered shapes  ;  and  below  him,  on  a  humbler  throne,  with  a 
gray  beard  and  downcast  eye,  sat  the  aged  King  of  the  Dwarfs 
that  preside  over  the  dull  realms  of  lead,  and  inspire  the  verse 

of ,  and  the  prose  of !  And  there  too,  a  fantastic 

household  elf,  was  the  President  of  the  Copper  Republic — a 
spirit  that  loves  economy  and  the  Uses,  and  smiles  sparely  on 
the  Beautiful.  But  in  the  centre  of  the  cave,  upon  beds  of  the 
softest  mosses,  the  untrodden  growth  of  ages,  reclined  the 
fairy  visitors — Nymphalin  seated  by  her  betrothed.  And  round 
the  walls  of  the  cave  were  dwarf  attendants  on  the  sovereigns 

*  It  was  just  at  the  time  the  author  was  finishing  this  work  that  the  great  master  o/ 
his  art  was  drawing  to  the  close  of  his  career. 


182  THE   PILGRIMS   OP   THE   RHINE. 

of  the  metals,  of  a.  thousand  odd  shapes  and  fantastic  garments. 
On  the  abrupt  ledges  of  the  rocks  the  bats,  charmed  to  still- 
ness but  not  sleep,  clustered  thickly,  watching  the  scene  with 
fixed  and  amazed  eyes  ;  and  one  old  gray  owl,  the  favorite  of 
the  witch  of  the  valley,  sat  blinking  in  a  corner,  listening  with 
all  her  might  that  she  might  bring  home  the  scandal  to  her 
mistress. 

"And  tell  me,  Prince  of 'the  Rhine-Island  Fays,"  said  the 
King  of  the  Silver  Mines,  "  forthou  art  a  traveller,  and  a  fairy 
that  hath  seen  much,  how  go  men's  affairs  in  the  upper  world  ? 
As  to  ourself,  we  live  here  in  a  stupid  splendor,  and  only  hear 
the  news  of  the  day  when  our  brother  of  lead  pays  a  visit  to 
the  English  printing-press,  or  the  President  of  Copper  goes  to 
look  at  his  improvements  in  steam-engines." 

"  Indeed,"  replied  Fayzenheim,  preparing  to  speak,  like 
^Eneas  in  the  Carthaginian  court  ;  "  Indeed,  your  majesty,  I 
know  not  much  that  will  interest  you  in  the  present  aspect  of 
mortal  affairs,  except  that  you  are  quite  as  much  honored  at 
this  day  as  when  the  Roman  conqueror  bent  his  knee  to  you 
among  the  mountains  of  Taunus  :  and  a  vast  number  of  little 
round  subjects  of  yours'  are  constantly  carried  about  by  the 
rich,  and  pined  after  with  hopeless  adoration  by  the  poor. 
But,  begging  your  majesty's  pardon,  may  I  ask  what  has  be- 
come of  your  cousin,  the  King  of  the  Golden  Mines?  I  know 
very  well  that  he  has  no  dominion  in  these  valleys,  and  do  not 
therefore  wonder  at  his  absence  from  your  court  this  night  ; 
but  I  see  so  little  of  his  subjects  on  earth  that  I  should  fear 
his  empire  was  v\%ll  nigh  at  an  end,  if  I  did  not  recognize 
everywhere  the  most  servile  homage  paid  to  a  power  now 
become  almost  invisible." 

.  The  King  of  the  Silver  Mines  fetched  a  deep  sigh.  "  Alas, 
prince,"  said  he,  "  too  well  do  you  divine  the  expiration  of  my 
cousin's  empire.  So  many  of  his  subjects  have  from  time  to 
time  gone  forth  to  the  world,  pressed  into  military  service  and 
never  returning,  that  his  kingdom  is  nearly  depopulated.  And 
he  lives  far  off  in  the  distant  parts  of  the  earth,  in  a  state  of 
melancholy  seclusion  ;  the  age  of  gold  has  passed,  the  age  of 
paper  has  commenced." 

.  "  Paper,"  said  Nymphalin,  who  was  still  somewhat  of  a/n?- 
cieuse  ;  "  paper  is  a  wonderful  thing.  What  pretty  books  the 
human  people  write  upon  it !  " 

"  Ah  !  that's  what  I  design  to  convey,"  said  the  silver  king. 
"  It  is  the  age  less  of  paper  money  than  paper  government  : 
the  press  is  the  true  bank."  The  lord  treasurer  of  the  English 


THE    PILGRIMS   OF    THE    RHINE.  I§3 

fairies  pricked  up  his  ears  at  the  word  "  bank."  For  he  was 
the  Attwood  of  the  fairies  :  he  had  a  favorite  plan  of  making 
money  out  of  bulrushes,  and  had  written  four  large  bees'-wings 
full  upon  the  true  nature  of  capital. 

While  they  were  thus  conversing,  a  sudden  sound  as  of 
some  rustic  and  rude  music  broke  along  the  air,  and  closing 
its  wild  burden,  they  heard  the  following  song  : 

« 

THE    COMPLAINT   OF    THE    LAST    FAUN. 

The  moon  on  the  Latmos  mountain 

Her  pining  vigil  keeps  ; 
And  ever  the  silver  fountain 

In  the  Dorian  valley  weeps. 
But  gone  are  Endymion's  dreams  ;— 

And  the  crystal  lymph 

Bewails  the  nymph 
Whose  beauty  sleeked  the  streams  1 

Round  Arcady's  oak,  its  green 

The  Bromian  ivy  weaves  ; 
But  no  more  is  the  satyr  seen 

Laughing  out  from  the  glossy  leaves. 
Hushed  is  the  Lycian  lute, 

Still  grows  the  seed 

Of  the  Mcenale  reed, 
But  the  pipe  of  Pan  is  mute  ! 

The  leaves  in  the  noonday  quiver  ; 

The  vines  on  the  mountains  wave  ; 
And  Tiber  rolls  his  river 

As  fresh  by  the  Sylvan's  cave  ; 
But  my  brothers  are  dead  and  gone  ; 

And  far  away 

From  their  graves  I  stray, 
And  dream  of  the  Past  alone  ! 

And  the  sun  of  the  north  is  chill ; 

And  keen  is  the  northern  gale  ; 
Alas  for  the  song  on  the  Argive  hill ; 

And  the  dance  in  the  Cretan  vale  !— 
The  youth  of  the  earth  is  o'er, 

And  its  breast  is  rife 

With  the  teeming  life 
Of  the  golden  Tribes  no  more  ! 

,  My  race  are  more  blest  than  I, 

Asleep  in  their  distant  bed  ; 
'Twere  better,  be  sure,  to  die 

Than  to  mourn  for  the  buried  De»d  ;— • 
To  rove  by  the  si  ranger  streams, 

At  dusk  and  dawn 

A  lonely  faun, 
The  last  of  the  Grecian's  dreams. 


PILGRIMS   OF   THE   RHINE. 

As  the  song  ended  A  shadow  crossed  the  moonlight,  that 
lay  white  and  lustrous  before  the  aperture  of  the  cavern  ;  and 
Nymphalin,  looking  up,  beheld  a  graceful,  yet  grotesque  figure 
standing  on  the  sward  without,  and  gazing  on  the  group  in 
the  cave.  It  was  a  shaggy  form,  with  a  goat's  legs  and  ears  ; 
but  the  rest  of  its  body,  and  the  height  of  the  stature,  like  a 
man's.  An  arch,  pleasant,  yet  malicious  smile,  played  about 
its  lips  ;  and  in  its  hand  it  held  the  pastoral  pipe  of  which 
poets  have  sung — they  would  find  it  difficult  to  sing  to  it ! 

"And  who  art  thou  ? "  said  Fayzenheim,  with  the  air  of  a 
hero. 

"  I  am  the  last  lingering  wanderer  of  the  race  which  the 
Romans  worshipped  :  hither  I  followed  their  victorious  steps, 
and  in  these  green  hollows  have  I  remained.  Sometimes  in 
the  still  noon,  when  the  leaves  of  spring  bud  upon  the  whisper- 
ing woods,  I  peer  forth  from  my  rocky  lair,  and  startle  the 
peasant  with  my  strange  voice  and  stranger  shape.  Then 
goes  he  home,  and  puzzles  his  thick-  brain  with  mopes  and 
fancies,  till  at  length  he  imagines  me,  the  creature  of  the 
south,  one  of  his  northern  demons,  and  his  poets  adapt  the 
apparition  to  their  barbarous  lines." 

"  Ho  !  "  quoth  the  silver  king,  "  surely  thou  art  the  origin  of 
the  fabled  Satan  of  the  cowled  men  living  whilome  in  yonder 
ruins,  with  its  horns  and  goatish  limbs :  and  the  harmless 
faun  has  been  made  the  figuration  of  the  most  implacable  of 
fiends.  But  why,  O  wanderer  of  the  south,  lingerest  thou  in 
these  foreign  dells  ?  Why  returnest  thou  not  to  the  bi-forked 
hilltop  of  .old  Parnassus,  or  the  wastes  around  the  yellow 
course  of  the  Tiber?" 

"  My  brethren  are  no  more,"  said  the  poor  faun  ;  and  the 
very  faith  that  left  us  sacred  and  unharmed  is  departed.  But 
here  all  the  spirits  not  of  mortality  are  still  honored  ;  and  I 
wander,  mourning  for  Silenus  ;  though  amidst  the  vines  that 
should  console  me  for  his  loss." 

"  Thou  hast  known  great  beings  in  thy  day,"  said  the  leaden 
king,  who  loved  the  philosophy  of  a  truism  (and  the  history 
of  whose  inspirations  I  shall  one  day  write). 

"  Ah,  yes,"  said  the  faun,  "  my  birth  was  amidst  the  fresh- 
ness of  the  world  when  the  flush  of  the  universal  life  colored 
all  things  with  divinity  ;  when  not  a  tree  but  had  its  Dryad, 
not  a  fountain  that  was  without  its  Nymph.  I  sat  by  the  gray 
throne  of  Saturn,  in  his  old  age,  ere  yet  he  was  discrowned 
(for  he  was  no  visionary  ideal,  but  the  arch  monarch  of  .the 
pastoral  age) :  and  heard  from  his  lips  the  history  of  the 


THE    PILGRIMS   OF    THE    RHINE.  185 

woild's  birth.  But  those  times  are  gone  forever — they  have 
left  harsh  successors." 

"  It  is  the  age  of  paper,"  muttered  the  lord  treasurer,  shak- 
ing his  head. 

"  What  ho,  for  a  dance  !  "  cried  Fayzenheim,  too  royal  for 
moralities,  and  he  whirled  the  beautiful  Nymphalin  into  a 
waltz.  Then  forth  issued  the  fairies,  and  out  went  the  dwarfs. 
And  the  faun  leaning  against  an  aged  elm,  ere  yet  the  mid- 
night waned,  the  elves  danced  their  charmed  round  to  the 
antique  minstrelsy  of  his  pipe — the  minstrelsy  of  the  Grecian 
world  ! 

"  Hast  thou  seen  yet,  my  Nymphalin,"  said  Fayzenheim,  in 
the  pauses  of  the  dance,  "  the  recess  of  the  Hartz,  and  the  red 
form  of  its  mighty  hunter?" 

"  It  is  a  fearful  sight,"  answered  Nymphalin  :  "  but  with 
thee  I  should  not  fear." 

"  Away  then,"  cried  Fayzenheim  ;  "  let  us  away,  at  the  first 
cock-crow,  into  those  shaggy  dells,  for,  there,  is  no  need  of 
night  to  conceal  us,  and  the  unwitnessed  blush  of  morn,  or 
the  dreary  silence  of  noon,  is,  no  less  than  the  moon's  reign, 
the  season  for  the  sports  of  the  superhuman  tribes." 

Nymphalin,  charmed  with  the  proposal,  readily  assented, 
and  at  the  last  hour  of  night,  bestriding  the  starbeams  of  the 
many-titled  Friga,  away  sped  the  fairy  cavalcade  to  the  gloom 
of  the  mystic  Hartz. 

Fain  would  I  relate  the  manner  of  their  arrival  in  the  thick 
recesses  of  the  forest ;  how  they  found  the  Red  Hunter  seated 
on  a  fallen  pine  beside  a  wide  chasm  in  the  earth,  with  the 
arching  boughs  of  the  wizard  oak  wreathing  above  his  head  as 
a  canopy,  and  his  bow  and  spear  lying  idle  at  his  feet.  Fain 
would  I  tell  of  the  reception  which  he  deigned  to  the  fairies, 
and  how  he  told  them  of  his  ancient  victories  over  man  ;  how 
he  chafed  at  the  gathering  invasions  of  his  realm  ;  and  how 
joyously  he  gloated  of  some  great  convulsion  *  in  the  north- 
ern states,  which,  rapt  into  moody  reveries  in  those  solitary 
woods,  the  fierce  demon  broodingly  foresaw.  All  these  fain 
would  I  narrate,  but  they  are  not  of  the  Rhine,  and  my  story 
will  not  brook  the  delay.  While  thus  conversing  with  the 
fiend,  noon  had  crept  on  and  the  sky  had  become  overcast 
and  lowering ;  the  giant  trees  waved  gustily  to  and  fro,  and 
the  low  gatherings  of  the  thunder  announced  the  approaching 
storm.  Then  the  hunter  rose  and  stretched  his  mighty  limbs, 
and  seizing  his  spear,  he  strode  rapidly  into  the  forest  to  .meet 

*  Wb)(h  ha*  come  to  pass.     1849, 


|86  THE    PILGRIMS    OF    THE    RHINE. 

the  things  of  his  own  tribe  that  the  tempest  wakes  from  their 
'rugged  lair. 

A  sudden  recollection  broke  upon  Nymphalin.  "Alas, 
alas  !"  she  cried,  wringing  her  hands;  "what  have  I  done! 
In  journeying  hither  with  thee,  I  have  forgotten  my  office.  I-, 
have  neglected  my  watch  over  the  elements,  and  my  human 
charge  is  at  this  hour,  perhaps,  exposed  to  all  the  fury  of  the 
storm." 

"  Cheer  thee,  my  Nymphalin,"  said  the  prince,  "  we  will  lay 
the  tempest";  and  he  waved  his  sword  and  muttered  the 
charms  which  curb  the  winds  and  roll  back  the  marching 
thunder :  but  for  once  the  tempest  ceased  not  at  his  spells  ; 
and  now,  as  the  fairies  sped  along  the  troubled  air,  a  pale  and 
beautiful  form  met  them  by  the  way,  and  the  fairies  paused 
and  trembled.  For  the  power  of  that  Shape  could  vanquish 
even  them.  It  was  the  form  of  a  Female,  with  golden  hair, 
crowned  with  a  chaplet  of  withered  leaves ;  her  bosoms,  of  an 
exceeding  beauty,  lay  bare  to  the  wind,  and  an  infant  was 
clasped  between  them,  hushed  into  a  sleep  so  still,  that  neither 
the  roar  of  the  thunder,  nor  the  livid  lightning  flashing  from, 
cloud  to  cloud,  could  even  ruffle,  much  less  arouse,  the 
slumberer.  And  the  face  of  the  Female  was  unutterably  calm 
and  sweet  (though  with  a  something  of  severe),  there  was  no 
line  nor  wrinkle  in  her  hueless  brow  ;  care  never  wrote  its 
defacing  characters  upon  that  everlasting  beauty.  It  knew  no 
sorrow  or  change  ;  ghost-like  and  shadowy  floated  on  that 
Shape  through  the  abyss  of  Time,  governing  the  world  with 
an  unquestioned  and  noiseless  sway.  And  the  children  of  the 
green  solitudes  of  the  earth,  the  lovely  fairies  of  my  tale, 
shuddered  as  they  gazed  and  recognized — the  form  of  DEATH  ! 

DEATH    VINDICATED. 

"  And  why,"  said  the  beautiful  Shape,  with  a  voice  soft  as 
the  last  sighs  of  a  dying  babe  ;  "  why  trouble  ye  the  air  with 
spells  ?  Mine  is  the  hour  and  the  empire,  and  the  storm  is  the 
creature  of  my  power.  Far  yonder  to  the  west  it  sweeps  over 
the  sea,  and  the  ship  ceases  to  vex  the  waves ;  it  smites  the 
forest  and  the  destined  tree,  torn  from  its  roots,  feels  the  win- 
ter strip  the  gladness  from  its  boughs  no  more  !  The  roar  of 
the  elements  is  the  herald  of  eternal  stiTtness  to  their  victims; 
and  they  who  hear  the  progress  of  my  power  idly  shudder  at 
the  coining  of  peace.  And  thou,  O  tender  daughter  of  the 
faery  kings  !  why  grievest  thou  at  a  mortal's  doom  ?  Knowest 
thou  not  that  sorrow  cometh  with  years,  and  that  to  live  is  to 


THE    PILGRIMS    OF    THE    RHINE.  187 

mourn  ?  Blessed  is  the  flower  that,  nipped  in  its  early  spring, 
feels  not  the  blast  that  one  by  one  scatters  its  blossoms  around 
it,  and  leaves  but  the  barren  stem.  Blessed  are  the  young 
whom  I  clasp  to  my  breast,  and  lull  into  the  sleep  which  the 
storm  cannot  break,  nor  the  morrow  arouse  to  sorrow  or  to 
toil.  The  heart  that  is  stilled  in  the  bloom  of  its  first  emo- 
tions ;  that  turns  with  its  last  throb  to  the  eye  of  love,  as  yet 
unlearned  in  the  possibility  of  change  ;  has  exhausted  already 
the  wine  of  life,  and  is  saved  only  from  the  lees.  As  the 
mother  soothes  to  sleep  the  wail  of  her  troubled  child,  I  open 
my  arms  to  the  vexed  spirit,  and  my  bosom  cradles  the  unquiet 
to  repose  !  " 

The  fairies  answered  not,  for  a  chill  and  a  fear  lay  over  them, 
and  the  Shape  glided  on  ;  ever  as  it  passed  away  through  the 
veiling  clouds  they  heard  its  low  voice  singing  amidst  the  roar 
of  the  storm  as  the  dirge  of  the  water-sprite  over  the  vessel  it 
hath  lured  into  the  whirlpool  or  the  shoals. 

CHAPTER  XXVII. 

THURMBURG. — A    STORM     UPON    THE     RHINE. — THE     RUINS    OF 

RHEINFELS. PERIL    UNFELT     BY    LOVE. — THE    ECHO    OF    THE 

LURLEI-BERG. ST.    GOAR. CAUB,    GUTENFELS,    AND     PFALZ- 

GRAFENSTEIN. A  CERTAIN  VASTNESS  OF  MIND  IN  THE  FIRST 

HERMITS. — THE    SCENERY    OF    THE    RHINE    TO    BACHARACH.  — 

OUR  party  continued  their  voyage  the  next  day,  which  was 
less  bright  than  any  they  had  yet  experienced.  The  clouds 
swept  on  dull  and  heavy,  suffering  the  sun  only  to  break  forth 
at  scattered  intervals  ;  they  wound  round  the  curving  bay 
which  the  Rhine  forms  in  that  part  of  its  course  ;  and  gazed 
upon  the,  ruins  of  Thurmberg  with  the  rich  gardens  that  skirt 
the  banks  below.  The  last  time  Trevylyan  had  seen  those 
ruins  soaring  against  the  sky,  the  green  foliage  at  the  foot  of 
the  rocks,  and  the  quiet  village  sequestered  beneath,  glassing  its 
roofs  and  solitary  tower  up'on  the  wave,  it  had  been  with  a  gay 
summer  troop  of  light  friends,  who  had  paused  on  the  opposite 
shore  during  the  heats  of  noon,  and,  over  wine  and  fruits,  had 
mimicked  the  groups  of  Boccaccio,  and  intermingled  the  lute, 
the  jest,  the  momentary  love,  and  the  laughing  tale. 

What  a  difference  now  in  his  thoughts — in  the  object  of  the 
voyage — in  his  present  companions  !  The  feet  of  years  fall 
noiseless  ;  we  heed,  we  note  them  not,  till  tracking  the  same 
course  we  passed  long  since,  we  are  startled  to  find  how  deep 


l88  THE    PILGRIMS    OF    THE    RHINE. 

the  impression  they  leave  behind.     To  revisit  the  scenes  of  ouf 
youth  is  to  commune  with  the  ghost  of  ourselves. 

At  this  time  the  clouds  gathered  rapidly  along  the  heavens, 
and  they  were  startled  by  the  first  peal  of  the  thunder.  Sud- 
den and  swift  came  on  the  storm,  and  Trevylyan  trembled  as 
lie  covered  Gertrude's  form  with  the  rude  boat-cloaks  they  had 
brought  with  them  ;  the  small  vessel  began  to  rock  wildly  to 
and  fro  upon  the  waters.  High  above  them  rose  the  vast  dis- 
mantled Ruins  of  Rheinfels,  the  lightning  darting  through  its 
shattered  casements  and  broken  arches,  and  brightening  the 
gloomy  trees  that  here  and  there  clothed  the  rocks,  and  tossed 
to  the  angry  wind.  Swift  wheeled  the  water-birds  over  the 
river,  dipping  their  plumage  in  the  white  foam,  and  uttering 
their  discordant  screams.  A  storm  upon  the  Rhine  has  a 
grandeur  it  is  in  vain  to  paint.  Its  rocks,  its  foliage,  the 
feudal  ruins  that  everywhere  rise  from  the  lofty  heights — 
speaking  in  characters  of  stern  decay  of  many  a  former  battle 
against  time  and  tempest ;  the  broad  and  rapid  course  of  the 
legendary  river,  all  harmonize  with  the  elementary  strife  ;  and 
you  feel  that  to  see  the  Rhine  only  in  the  sunshine  is  to  be 
unconscious  of  its  most  majestic  aspects.  What  baronial  war 
had  those  ruins  witnessed  !  From  the  rapine  of  the  lordly 
tyrant  of  those  battlements  rose  the  first  confederation  of  the 
Rhine — the  great  strife  between  the  new  time  and  the  old — the 
town  and  the  castle — the  citizen  and  the  chief.  Gray  and  stern 
those  ruins  breasted  the  storm,  a  type  of  the  antique  opinion 
which  once  manned  them  with  armed  serfs  ;  and  yet,  in  ruins  and 
decay,appeals  from  the  victorious  freedom  it  may  no  longer  resist. 

Clasped  in  Trevylyan's  guardian  arms,  and  her  head  pil- 
lowed on  his  breast,  Gertrude  felt  nothing  of  the  storm  save 
its  grandeur ;  and  Trevylyan's  voice  whispered  cheer  and 
courage  to  her  ear.  She  answered  by  a  smile  and  a  sigh,  but 
not  of  pain.  In  the  convulsions  of  nature  we  forget'our  own 
separate  existence,  our  schemes,  our  projects,  our  fears;  our 
dreams  vanish  back  into  their  cells.  One  passion  only  the 
storm  quells  not,  and  the  presence  of  Love  mingles  with  the 
voice  of  the  fiercest  storms,  as  with  the  whispers  of  the 
southern  wind.  So  she  felt,  as  they  were  thus  drawn  close 
together,  and  as  she  strove  to  smile  away  the  anxious  terror 
from  Trevylyan's  gaze — a  security,  a  delight :  for  peril  is  sweet 
even  to  the  fears  of  woman,  when  it  impresses  upon  her  yet 
more  vividly  that  she  is  beloved. 

"  A  moment  more  and  we  reach  the  land,"  murmured 
Trevylyan, 


THE   PILGRIMS  OF    THE   RHINE.  1§<) 

"I  wish  it  not,"  answered  Gertrude  softly.  But  ere  they 
got  into  St.  Goar  the  rain  descended  in  torrents,  and  even  the 
thick  coverings  round  Gertrude's  form  were  not  sufficient  pro- 
tection against  it.  Wet  and  dripping,  she  reached  the  inn  :  but 
not  then,  nor  for  some  days,  was  she  sensible  of  the  shock  her 
decaying  health  had  received. 

The  storm  lasted  but  a  few  hours,  and  the  sun  afterwards 
broke  forth  so  brightly,  and  the  stream  looked  so  inviting, 
that  they  yielded  to  Gertrude's  earnest  wish,  and,  taking  a 
larger  vessel,  continued  their  course  ;  they  passed  along  the 
narrow  and  dangerous  defile  of  the  Gewirre,  and  the  fearful 
whirlpool  of  the  "  Bank  "  ;  and  on  the  shore  to  the  left  the 
enormous  rock  of  Lurlei  rose,  huge  and  shapeless,  on  their 
gaze.  In  this  place  is  a  singular  echo,  and  one  of  the  boat- 
men wound  a  horn,  which  produced  an  almost  supernatural 
music,  so  wild,  loud,  and  oft  reverberated  was  its  sound. 

The  river  now  curved  along  in  a  narrow  and  deep  channel 
amongst  rugged  steeps,  on  which  the  westering  sun  cast  long 
and  uncouth  shadows :  and  here  the  hermit,  from  whose 
sacred  name  the  town  of  St.  Goar  derived  its  own,  fixed  his 
abode  and  preached  the  religion  of  the  Cross.  "  There  was  a 
certain  vastness  of  mind,"  said  Vane,  "  in  the  adoption  of 
utter  solitude,  in  which  the  first  enthusiasts  of  our  religion  in- 
dulged. The  remote  desert,  the  solitary  rock,  the  rude  dwell- 
ing hollowed  from  the  cave,  the  eternal  commune  with  their 
own  hearts,  with  nature,  and  their  dreams  of  God,  all  make  a 
picture  of  severe  and  preterhuman  grandeur.  Say  what  we 
will  of  the  necessity  and  charm  of  social  life,  there  is  a  great- 
ness about  man  when  he  dispenses  with  mankind." 

"  As   to   that,"    said    Du e,    shrugging    his    shoulders, 

"  there  was  probably  very  good  wine  in  the   neighborhood, 
and  the  females'  eyes  about  Oberwesel  are  singularly  blue." 

They  now  approached  Oberwesel,  another  of  the  once 
imperial  towns,  and  behind  it  beheld  the  remains  of  the  castle 
of  the  illustrious  family  of  Schomberg  :  the  ancestors  of  the 
old  hero  of  the  Boyne.  A  little  further  on,  from  the  opposite 
shore,  the  castle  of  Gutenfels  rose  above  the  busy  town  of 
Kaub. 

"  Another  of  those  scenes,"  said  Trevylyan,  "  celebrated 
equally  by  love  and  glory,  for  the  castle's  name  is  derived  from 
that  of  the  beautiful  ladye  of  an  emperor's  passion  ;  and  below, 
upon  a  ridge  in  the  steep,  the  great  Gustavus  issued  forth  his 
command  to  begin  battle  with  the  Spaniards." 

"  It  looks  peaceful  enough  now,"  said  Vane,  pointing  to  the 


190  THE   PILGRIMS  OF   THE   RHINE. 

craft  that  lay  along  the  stream,  and  the  green  trees  drooping 
over  a  curve  in  the  bank.  Beyond,  in  the  middle  of  the  stream 
itself,  stands  the  lonely  castle  of  Pfalzgrafenstein,  sadly  mem- 
orable as  a  prison  to  the  more  distinguished  of  criminals. 
How  many  pining  eyes  may  have  turned  from  those  casements 
to  the  vine-clad  hills  of  the  free  shore ;  how  many  indignant 
hearts  have  nursed  the  deep  curses  of  hate  in  the  dungeons 
below,  and  longed  for  the  wave  that  dashed  against  the  gray 
walls  to  force  its  way  within  and  set  them  free  ! 

Here  the  Rhine  seems  utterly  bounded,  shrunk  into  one  of 
those  delusive  lakes  into  which  it  so  frequently  seems  to 
change  its  course  ;  and  as  you  proceed,  it  is  as  if  the  waters 
were  silently  overflowing  their  channel  and  forcing  their  way 
into  the  clefts  of  the  mountain  shore.  Passing  the  Werth 
Island  on  one  side,  and  the  castle  of  Stahleck  on  the  other, 
our  voyagers  arrived  at  Bacharach,  which,  associating  the 
feudal  recollections  with  the  classic,  takes  its  name  from  the 

god  of   the   vine  ;  and   as    Du e   declared   with  peculiar 

emphasis,  quaffing  a  large  goblet  of  the  peculiar  liquor, 
"  richly  deserves  the  honor." 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

THE  VOYAGE  TO  BINGEN. — THE  SIMPLE  INCIDENTS  IN  THIS 
TALE  EXCUSED. — THE  SITUATION  AND  CHARACTER  OF  GER- 
TRUDE.—  THE  CONVERSATION  OF  THE  LOVERS  IN  THE 

TEMPLE. — A  FACT  CONTRADICTED. THOUGHTS  OCCASIONED 

BY    A     MADHOUSE     AMONGST     THE    MOST     BEAUTIFUL    LAND- 
SCAPES    OF    THE    RHINE. 

THE  next  day  they  again  resumed  their  voyage,  and  Ger- 
trude's spirits  were  more  cheerful  than  usual  :  the  air  seemed 
to  her  lighter,  and  she  breathed  with  a  less  painful  effort  ; 
once  more  hope  entered  the  breast  of  Trevylyan  ;  and,  as  the 
vessel  bounded  on,  their  conversation  was  steeped  in  no 
sombre  hues.  When  Gertrude's  health  permitted,  no  temper 
was  so  gay,  yet  so  gently  gay,  as  hers  ;  and  now  the  naive 
sportiveness  of  her  remarks  called  a  smile  to  the  placid  lip  of 
Vane,  and  smoothed  the  anxious  front  of  Trevylyan  himself  ; 
as  for  Du e,  who  had  much  of  the  boon  companion  be- 
neath his  professional  gravity,  he  broke  out  every  now  and 
then  into  snatches  of  French  songs  and  drinking  glees,  which 
he  declared  were  the  result  of  the  air  of  Bacharach.  Thus 
conversing,  the  ruins  of  Furstenberg,  and  the  echoing  vale  of 


THE  pitGkiMs  OF  ±HE  kHiNfc.  191 

Rheindeibach,  glided  past  their  sail.  Then  the  old  town  of 
Lorch,  on  the  opposite  bank  (where  the  red  wine  is  said  first 
to  have  been  made),  with  the  green  island  before  it  in  the 
water.  Winding  round,  the  stream  showed  castle  upon  castle 
alike  in  ruins,  and  built  alike  upon  scarce  accessible  steeps. 
Then  came  the  chapel  of  St.  Clements,  and  the  opposing  vil- 
lage of  Asmannshausen  ;  the  lofty  Rossell,  built  at  the  ex- 
tremest  verge  of  the  cliff ;  and  now  the  tower  of  Hatto, 
celebrated  by  Southey's  ballad  ;  and  the  ancient  town  of 
Bingen.  Here  they  paused  awhile  from  their  voyage,  With  the 
intention  of  visiting  more  minutely  the  Rheingau,  or  Valley  of 
the  Rhine. 

It  must  occur  to  every  one  of  my  readers  that,  in  undertak- 
ing, as  now,  in  these  passages  in  the  history  of  Trevylyan, 
scarcely  so  much  a  tale  as  an  episode  in  real  life,  it  is  very 
difficult  to  offer  any  interest  save  of  the  most  simple  and  un- 
exciting kind.  It  is  true  that  to  Trevylyan  every  day,  every 
hour,  had  its  incident ;  but  what  are  those  incidents  to  others  ? 
A  cloud  in  the  sky  ;  a  smile  from  the  lip  of  Gertrude  ;  these 
were  to  him  far  more  full  of  events  than  had  been  the  most 
varied  scenes  of  his  former  adventurous  career  ;  but  the  his- 
tory of  the  heart  is  not  easily  translated  into  language  ;  and 
the  world  will  not  readily  pause  from  its  business  to  watch  the 
alternations  in  the  cheek  of  a  dying  girl. 

In  the  immense  sum  of  human  existence,  what  is  a  single 
unit  ?  Every  sod  on  which  we  tread  is  the  grave  of  some 
former  being  •  yet  is  there  something  that  softens  without 
enervating  the  heart,  in  tracing  in  the  life  of  another  those 
emotions  that  all  of  us  have  known  ourselves.  For  who  is 
there  that  has  not,  in  his  progress  through  life,  felt  all  its 
ordinary  business  arrested,  and  the  varieties  of  fate  commuted 
into  one  chronicle  of  the  affections  ?  Who  has  not  watched 
over  the  passing  away  of  some  being,  more  to  him,  at  that 
epoch,  than  all  the  world  ?  And  this  unit,  so  trivial  to  the 
calculation  of  others,  of  what  inestimable  value  was  it  not  to 
him  ?  Retracing  in  another  such  recollections,  shadowed  and 
mellowed  down  by  time,  we  feel  the  wonderful  sanctity  of 
human  life,  we  feel  what  emotions  a  single  being  can  awake  ; 
what  a  world  of  hope  may  be  buried  in  a  single  grave.  And 
thus  we  keep  alive  within  ourselves  the  soft  springs  of  that 
morality  which  unites  us  with  our  kind,  and  sheds  over  the 
harsh  scenes  and  turbulent  contests  of  earth  the  coloring  of  a 
common  love. 

There  is  often,  too,  in  the  time  of  year  in  which  such  thoughts 


Ig2  THE    PILGRIMS    OF    THE    RHINE. 

are  presented  to  us,  a  certain  harmony  with  the  feelings  they 
awaken.  As  I  write,  I  hear  the  last  sighs  of  the  departing 
summer,  and  the  sere  and  yellow  leaf  is  visible  in  the  green  of 
nature.  But,  when  this  book  goes  forth  into  the  world,  the 
year  will  have  passed  through  a  deeper  cycle  of  decay ;  and 
the  first  melancholy  signs  of  winter  have  breathed  into  the 
Universal  Mind  that  sadness  which  associates  itself  readily 
with  the  memory  of  friends,  of  feelings,  that  are  no  more. 
The  seasons,  like  ourselves,  track  their  course  by  something 
of  beauty,  or  of  glory,  that  is  left  behind.  As  the  traveller  in 
the  land  of  Palestine  sees  tomb  after  tomb  rise  before  him,  the 
landmarks  of  his  way,  and  the  only  signs  of  the  holiness  of 
the  soil  ;  thus  Memory  wanders  over  the  most  sacred  spots  in 
its  various  world,  and  traces  them  but  by  the  graves  of  the 
Past. 

It  was  now  that  Gertrude  began  to  feel  the  shock  her  frame 
had  received  in  the  storm  upon  the  Rhine.  Cold  shiverings 
frequently  seized  her;  her  cough  became  more  hollow,  and 
her  form  trembled  at  the  slightest  breeze. 

Vane  grew  seriously  alarmed  ;  he  repented  that  he  had 
yielded  to  Gertrude's  wish  of  substituting  the  Rhine  for  the 
Tiber  or  the  Arno  ;  and  would  even  now  have  hurried  across 

the  Alps  to  a  warmer  clime,  if  Du e  had  not  declared  that 

she  could  not  survive  the  journey,  and  that  her  sole  chance  of 
regaining  her  strength  was  rest.  Gertrude  herself,  however, 
in  the  continued  delusion  of  her  disease,  clung  to  the  belief  of 
recovery,  and  still  supported  the  hopes  of  het  father,  and 
soothed,  with  secret  talk  of  the  future,  the  anguish  of  her 
betrothed.  The  reader  may  remember  that,  the  most  touch- 
ing passage  in  the  ancient  tragedians,  the  most  pathetic  part 
of  the  most  pathetic  of  human  poets — the  pleading  speech  of 
]phigenia,  when  imploring  for  her  prolonged  life,  she  impresses 
you  with  so  soft  a  picture  of  its  innocence  and  its  beauty,  and 
in  this  Gertrude  resembled  the  Greek's  creation — that  she  felt, 
on  the  verge  of  death,  all  the  flush,  the  glow,  the  loveliness 
of  life.  Her  youth  was  filled  with  hope,  and  many-colored 
dreams  ;  she  loved,  and  the  hues  of  morning  slept  upon  the 
yet  disenchanted  earth.  The  heavens  to  her  were  not  as  the 
common  sky  ;  the  wave  had  its  peculiar  music  to  her  ear,  and 
the  rustling  leaves  a  pleasantness  that  none,  whose  heart  is 
not  bathed  in  the  love  and  sense  of  beauty,  could  discern. 
Therefore  it  was,  in  future  years,  a  thought  of  deep  gratitude 
to  Trevylyan  that  she  was  so  little  sensible  of  her  danger  ;  that 
the  landscape  caught  not  the  gloom  of  the  grave ;  and  that, 


THE    PILGRIMS   OF    THE    RHINE.  193 

in  the  Greek  phrase,  "  death  found  her  sleeping  amongst 
flowers." 

At  the  end  of  a  few  days,  another  of  those  sudden  turns, 
common  to  her  malady,  occurred  in  Gertrude's  health  ;  her 
youth  and  her  happiness  rallied  against  the  encroaching  tyrant, 
and  for  the  ensuing  fortnight  she  seemed  once  more  within 
the  bounds  of  hope.  During  this  time  they  made  several 
excursions  into  the  Rheingau,  and  finished  their  tour  at  the 
ancient  Heidelberg. 

One  morning,  in  these  excursions,  after  threading  the  wood 
of  Niederwald,  they  gained  that  small  and  fairy  temple,  which, 
hanging  lightly  over  the  mountain's  brow,  commands  one  of 
the  noblest  landscapes  of  earth.  There,  seated  side  by  side, 
the  lovers  looked  over  the  beautiful  world  below  ;  far  to  the 
left  lay  the  happy  islets,  in  the  embrace  of  the  Rhine,  as  it 
vvound  along  the  low  and  curving  meadows  that  stretch  away 
towards  Nieder  Ingelheim  and  Mayence.  Glistening  in  the 
distance,  the  opposite  Nah  swept  by  the  Manse  tower,  and  the 
ruins  of  Klopp,  crowning  the  ancient  Bingen,  into  the  mother 
tide.  There,  on  either  side  of  the  town,  were  the  mountains 
of  St.  Roch  and  Rupert,  with  some  old  monastic  ruin,  sadden- 
ing in  the  sun.  But  nearer,  below  the  temple,  contrasting  all 
the  other  features  of  landscape,  yawt>ed  a  dark  and  rugged 
gulf,  girt  by  cragged  elms  and  mouldering  towers,  the  very 
prototype  of  the  abyss  of  time — black  and  fathomless  amidst 
ruin  and  desolation. 

"  I  think,  sometimes,"  said  Gertrude,  "  as,  in  scenes  like 
these,  we  sit  together,  and,  rapt  from  the  actual  world,  see 
only  the  enchantment  that  distance  lends  to  our  view — I  think 
sometimes,  what  pleasure  it  will  be  hereafter  to  recall  these 
hours.  If  ever  you  should  love  me  less,  I  need  only  to  whisper 
to  you, 'The  Rhine,'  and  will  not  all  the  feelings  you  have  now 
for  me  return  ?  " 

"  Ah  !  there  will  never  be  occasion  to  recall  my  love  for  you, 
it  can  never  decay." 

"  What  a  strange  thing  is  life  !  "  said  Gertrude  ;  "  how 
unconnected,  how  desultory  seem  all  its  links  !  Has  this 
sweet  pause  from  trouble,  from  the  ordinary  cares  of  life — has 
it  anything  in  common  with  your  past  career — with  your  future  ? 
You  will  go  into  the  great  world  ;  in  a  few  years  hence  these 
moments  of  leisure  and  musing  will  be  denied  to  you  ;  the 
action  that  you  love  and  court  is  a  jealous  sphere  ;  it  allows 
no  wandering,  no  repose.  These  moments  will  then  seem  to 
you  but  as  yonder  islands  that  stud  the  Rhine — the  stream 


194  THE    PILGRIMS   OF    THE    RHINE. 

lingers  by  them  for  a  moment,  and  then  hurries  on  in  its  rapid 
course  ;  they  vary  but  they  do  not  interrupt  the  tide." 

"You  are  fanciful,  my  Gertrude  ;  but  your  simile  might  be 
juster.  Rather  let  these  banks  be  as  our  lives,  and  this  river 
the  one  thought  that  flows  eternally  by  both,  blessing  each 
with  undying  freshness." 

Gertrude  smiled  ;  and,  as  Trevylyan's  arm'  encircled  her, 
she  sunk  her  beautiful  face  upon  his  bosom,  he  covered  it 
with  his  kisses,  and  she  thought  at  the  moment  that,  even 
had  she  passed  death,  that  embrace  could  have  recalled  her 
to  life. 

They  pursued  their  course  to  Mayence,  partly  by  land, 
partly  along  the  river.  One  day,  as  returning  from  the  vine- 
clad  mountains  of  Johannisberg,  which  commands  the  whole 
of  the  Rheingau,  the  most  beautiful'valley  in  the  world,  they 
proceeded  by  water  to  the  town  of  Ellfeld,  Gertrude  said  : 

"There  is  a  thought  in  your  favorite  poet  which  you  have 
often  repeated,  and  which  I  cannot  think  true, 

'  In  nature  there  is  nothing  melancholy.' 

To  me,  it  seems  as  if  a  certain  melancholy  were  inseparable 
from  beauty  ;  in  the  sunniest  noon  there  is  a  sense  of  solitude 
and  stillness  which  pervades  the  landscape,  and  even  in  the 
flush  of  life  inspires  us  with  a  musing  and  tender  sadness. 
Why  is  this?" 

"  I  cannot  tell,"  said  Trevylyan  mournfully ;  "  but  I  allow 
that  it  is  true." 

"It  is  as  if,"  continued  the  romantic  Gertrude,  "the  spirit 
of  the  world  spoke  to  us  in  the  silence,  and  filled  us  with  a 
sense  of  our  mortality — a  whisper  from  the  religion  that 
belongs  to  nature,  and  is  ever  seeking  to  unite  the  earth  with 
the  reminiscences  of  Heaven.  Ah,  what  without  a  Heaven 
would  be  even  love  ! — a  perpetual  terror  of  the  separation 
that  must  one  day  come  !  If,"  she  resumed  solemnly,  after  a 
momentary  pause,  and  a  shadow  settled  on  her  young  face, 
"  if  it  be  true,  Albert,  that  I  must  leave  you  soon — " 

"  It  cannot — it  cannot !  "  cried  Trevylyan  wildly  ;  "  be  still, 
be  silent,  I  beseech  you." 

"  Look  yonder,"  said  Du e,  breaking  seasonably  in  upon 

the  conversation  of  the  lovers  ;  "  on  that  hill  to  the  left,  what 
once  was  an  abbey  is  now  an  asylum  for  the  insane.  Does  it 
not  seem  a  quiet  and  serene  abode  for  the  unstrung  and  erring 
minds  that  tenant  it  ?  What  a  mystery  is  there  in  our  con- 
formation ! — those  strange  and  bewildered  fancies  which 


THE   PILGRIMS   OF   THE   RHINE.  195 

replace  our  solid  reason,  what  a  moral  of  our  human  weakness 
do  they  breathe  !  " 

It  does  indeed  induce  a,  dark  and  singular  train  of  thought, 
when,  in  the  midst  of  these  lovely  scenes,  we  chance  upon 
this  lone  retreat  for  those  on  whose  eyes  Nature,  perhaps, 
smiles  in  vain  !  Or  is  it  in  vain  ?  They  look  down  upon  the 
broad  Rhine,  with  its  tranquil  isles  ;  do  their  wild  illusions 
endow  the  river  with  another  name,  and  people  the  valleys 
with  no  living  shapes  !  Does  the  broken  mirror  within  reflect 
back  the  countenance  of  real  things,  or  shadows  and  shapes, 
crossed,  mingled,  and  bewildered — the  phantasma  of  a  sick 
man's  dreams?  Yet,  perchance,  one  memory  unscathed  by 
the  general  ruin  of  the  brain  can  make  even  the  beautiful 
Rhine  more  beautiful  than  it  is  to  the  common  eye — can  calm 
it  with  the  hues  of  departed  love,  and  bid  its  possessor  walk 
over  its  vine  clad  mountains  with  the  beings  that  have  ceased 
to  be !  There,  perhaps,  the  self-made  monarch  sits  upon  his 
throne  and  claims  the  vessels  as  his  fleet,  the  waves  and  the 
valleys  as  his  own.  There,  the  enthusiast,  blasted  by  the 
light  of  some  imaginary  creed,  beholds  the  shapes  of  angels, 
and  watches  in  the  clouds  round  the  setting  sun  the  pavilions 
of  God.  There  the  victim  of  forsaken  or  perished  love, 
mightier  than  the  sorcerers  of  old,  evokes  the  dead,  or  recalls 
the  faithless  by  the  philtre  of  undying  fancies.  Ah, -blessed 
art  thou,  the  winged  power  of  Imagination  that  is  within  us  ! — 
conquering  even  grief,  brightening  even  despair.  Thou  takest 
us  from  the  world  when  reason  can  no  longer  bind  us  to  it, 
and  givest  to  the  maniac  the  inspiration  and  the  solace  of  the 
bard  !  Thou,  the  parent  of  the  purer  love,  lingerest  like  love, 
when  even  ourself  forsakes  us,  and  lightest  up  the  shattered 
chambers  of  the  heart  with  the  glory  that  makes  a  sanctity  of 
-decay ! 

CHAPTER  XXIX. 

ELLFELD. — MAYENCE. — HEIDELBERG. — A  .CONVERSATION  BE- 
TWEEN VANE  AND  THE  GERMAN  STUDENT. — THE  RUINS 
OF  THE  CASTLE  OF  HEIDELBERG  AND  ITS  SOLITARY 
HABITANT. 

IT  was"  now  the  full  noon  ;  light  clouds  were  bearing  up 
towards  the  opposite  banks  of  the  Rhine,  but  over  the  Gothic 
Towers  of  Ellfeld  the  sky  spread  blue  and  clear  ;  the  river 
danced  beside  the  old  gray  walls  with  a  sunny  wave,  and  close 
a.1  hand  a  vessel  crowded  with  passengers,  and  loud  with  eager 


196  THE   PILGRIMS  OF   THE   RHINE. 

voices,  gave  a  merry  life  to  the  scene.  On  the  opposite  bank 
the  hills  sloped  away  into  the  far  horizon,  and  one  slight  skiff 
in  the  midst  of  the  waters  broke  the  solitary  brightness  of  the 
noonday  calm. 

The  town  of  Ellfeld  was  the  gift  of  Otho  the  First  to  the 
Church  ;  not  far  from  thence  is  the  crystal  spring  that  gives 
its  name  to  the  delicious  grape  of  Markbrunner. 

"  Ah  !  "  quoth  Du e,  "  doubtless  the  good  bishops  of 

Mayence  made  the  best  of  the  vicinity  !  " 

They  stayed  some  little  time  at  this  town,  and  visited  the 
ruins  of  Scharfenstein  ;  thence  proceeding  up  the  river,  they 
passed  Nieder  Walluf,  called  the  Gate  of  the  Rheingau,  and 
the  luxuriant  garden  of  Schierstein  ;  thence,  sailing  by  the 
castle-seat  of  the  Prince  Nassau  Usingen,  and  passing  two 
long  and  narrow  isles,  they  arrived  at  Mayence,  as  the  sun 
shot  his  last  rays  upon  the  waters,  gilding  the  proud  cathedral 
spire,  and  breaking  the  mists  that  began  to  gather  behind,  over 
the  rocks  of  the  Rheingau. 

Ever-memorable  Mayence ! — memorable  alike  for  freedom 
and  for  song — within  those  walls  how  often  woke  the  gallant 
music  of  the  Troubadour  ;  and  how  often  beside  that  river  did 
the  heart  of  the  maiden  tremble  to  the  lay  !  Within  those  walls 
the  stout  Walpoden  first  broached  the  great  scheme  of  the 
Hanseatlc  league  ;  and,  more  than  all,  O  memorable  Mayence, 
thou  canst  claim  the  first  invention  of  the  mightiest  engine  of 
human  intellect — the  great  leveller  of  power — the  Demiurgus 
of  the  moral  world — The  Press  !  Here  too  lived  the  maligned 
hero  of  the  greatest  drama  of  modern  genius,  the  traditionary 
Faust,  illustrating  in  himself  the  fate  of  his  successors  in  dis- 
pensing knowledge — held  a  monster  for  his  wisdom,  and  con- 
signed to  the  penalties  of  hell  as  a  recompense  for  the  benefits 
he  had  conferred  on  earth  ! 

At  Mayence,  Gertrude  heard  so  much  and  so  constantly  of 
Heidelberg  that  she  grew  impatient  to  visit  that  enchanting 

town,  and  as  Du e  considered  the  air  of  Heidelberg  more 

pure  and  invigorating  than  that  of  Mayence,  they  resolved  to 
fix  within  it  their  temporary  residence.  Alas  !  it  was  the 
place  destined  to  close  their  brief  and  melancholy  pilgrimage, 
and  to  become  to  the  heart  of  Trevylyan  the  holiest  spot  which 
the  earth  contained1 — the  KAABA  of  the  world.  But  Gertrude, 
unconscious  of  her  fate,  conversed  gayly  as  their  carriage 
rolled  rapidly  on,  and,  constantly  alive  to  every  new  sensation, 
she  touched  with  her  characteristic  vivacity  on  all  they  had 
seen  in  their  previous  route.  There  is  a  great  charm  in  the 


THE    PILGRIMS   OF    THE    RHINE.  197 

observations  of  one  new  to  the  world,  if  we  ourselves  have 
become  somewhat  tired  of  "  its  hack  sights  and  sounds,"  we 
hear  in  their  freshness  a  yoice  from  our  own  youth. 

In  the  haunted  valley  of  the  Neckar,  the  most  crystal  of 
rivers,  stands  the  town  of  Heidelberg.  The  shades  of  even- 
ing gathered  round  it  as  their  heavy  carriage  rattled  along  the 
antique  streets,  and  not  till  the  next  day  was  Gertrude  aware 
of  all  the  unrivalled  beauties  that  environ  the  place. 

Vane,  who  was  an  early  riser,  went  forth  alone  in  the  morn- 
ing to  reconnoitre  the  town  ;  and  as  he  was  gazing  on  the 
tower  of  St.  Peter,  he  heard  himself  suddenly  accosted  ;  he 
turned  round  and  saw  the  German  Student,  whom  they  had 
met  among  the  mountains  of  Taunus,  at  his  elbow. 

"  Monsieur  has  chosen  well  in  coming  hither,"  said  the 
student;  "and  I  trust  our  town  will  not  disappoint  his  ex- 
pectations." 

Vane  answered  with  courtesy,  and  the  German  offering  to 
accompany  him  in  his  walk,  their  conversation  fell  naturally  on 
the  life  of  an  university,  and  the  current  education  of  the 
German  people. 

"  It  is  surprising,"  said  the  student,  "that  men  are  eternally 
inventing  new  systems  of  education,  and  yet  persevering  in 
the  old.  How  many  years  ago  is  it  since  Fichte  predicted,  in 
the  system  of  Pestalozzi,  the  regeneration  of  the  German 
people  ?  What  has  it  done  ?  We  admire — we  praise,  and  we 
blunder  on  in  the  very  course  Pestalozzi  proves  to  be  errone- 
ous. Certainly,"  continued  the  student,  "there  must  be  some 
radical  defect  in  a  system  of  culture  in  which  genius  is  an 
exception,  and  dullness  the  result.  Yet  here,  in  our  German 
universities,  everything  proves  that  education  without  equita- 
ble institutions  avails  little  in  the  general  formation  of  charac- 
ter. Here  the  young  men  of  the  colleges  mix  on  the  most 
equal  terms  ;  they  are  daring,  romantic,  enamoured  of  free- 
dom even  to  its  madness  ;  they  leave  the  university  ;  no  politi- 
cal career  continues  the  train  of  mind  they  had  acquired  ; 
they  plunge  into  obscurity ;  live  scattered  and  separate,  and 
the  student  inebriated  with  ^chiller  sinks  into  the  passive  priest 
or  the  lethargic  baron.  His  college  career,  so  far  from  indi- 
cating his  future  life,  exactly  reverses  it :  he  is  brought  up  in 
one  course  in  order  to  proceed  in  another.  And  this  I  hold 
to  be  the  universal  error  of  education  in  all  countries ;  they 
conceive  it  a  certain  something  to  be  finished  at  a  certain  age. 
They  do  not  make  it  a  part  of  the  continuous  history  of  life, 
but  a.  wandering  from  it." 


198  THE    PILGRIMS   OF    THE    RHINE. 

"  You  have  been  in  England  ?"  asked  Vane. 

"  Yes ;  I  have  travelled  over  nearly  the  whole  of  it  on  foot. 
I  was  poor  at  that  time,  and  imagined  there  was  a  sort  of 
masonry  between  all  men  of  letters.  I  inquired  at  each  town 
for  the  savans,  and  asked  money  of  them  as  a  matter  of 
course." 

Vane  almost  laughed  outright  at  the  simplicity  and  nai've 
unconsciousness  of  degradation  with  which  the  student  pro- 
claimed himself  a  public  beggar. 

"  And  how  did  you  generally  succeed  ?" 

"  In  most  cases  I  was  threatened  with  the  stocks,  and  twice 
I  was  consigned  by  \\\tjuge  de paix  to  the  village  police,  to  be 
passed  to  some  mystic  Mecca  they  were  pleased  to  entitle  'a 
parish.'  Ah  (continued  the  German  with  much  bonhommie), 
it  was  a  pity  to  see  in  a  great  nation  so  much  value  attached 
to  such  a  trifle  as  money.  But  what  surprised  me  greatly  was 
the  tone  of  your  poetry.  Madame  de  Stael,  who  knew  per- 
haps as  much  of  England  as  she  did  of  Germany,  tells  us  that 
its  chief  character  is  the  chivalrcsque ;  and  excepting  only 
Scott,  who,  by  the  way,  is  not  English,  I  did  not  find  one 
chivalrous  poet  among  you.  Yet,"  continued  the  student, 
"  between  ourselves,  I  fancy  that  in  our  present  age  of  civiliz- 
ation, there  is  an  unexamined  mistake  in  the  general  mind  as 
to  the  value  of  poetry.  It  delights  still  as  ever,  but  it  has 
ceased  to  teach.  The  prose  of  the  heart  enlightens,  touches, 
rouses,  for  more  than  poetry.  Your  most  philosophical  poets 
would  be  commonplace  if  turned  into  prose.  Verse  cannot 
contain  the  refining,  subtle  thoughts  which  a  great  prose  writer 
embodies;  the  rhyme  eternally  cripples  it ;  it  properly  deals 
with  the  common  problems  ofv  human  nature  which  are  now 
hackneyed,  and  not  with  the  nice  and  philosophizing  corol- 
laries which  may  be  drawn  from  them.  Thus,  though  it  would 
seem  at  first  a  paradox,  commonplace  is  more  the  element  of 
'poetry  than  of  prose." 

This  sentiment  charmed  Vane,  who  had  nothing  of  the  poet 
about  him  ;  and  he  took  the  student  to  share  their  breakfast 
at  the  inn,  with  a  complacency  he  rarely  experienced  at  the 
re-meeting  with  a  new  acquaintance. 

After  breakfast,  our  party  proceeded  through  the  town 
towards  the  wonderful  castle  which  is  its  chief  attraction,  and 
the  noblest  wreck  of  German  grandeur. 

And  now  pausing,  the  mountain  yet  unsealed,  the  stately 
ruin  frowned  upon  them,  girt  by  its  massive  walls  and  hanging 
terraces,  round  which  from  place  to  place  clung  the  dwarfed 


THE    PILGRIMS   OF    THE    RHINE.  199 

and  various  foliage.  High  at  the  rear  rose  the  huge  moun. 
tain,  covered,  save  at  its  extreme  summit,  with  dark  trees,  and 
concealing  in  its  mysterious  breast  the  shadowy  beings  of  the 
legendary  world.  But  towards  the  ruins,  and  up  a  steep 
ascent,  you  may  see  a  few  scattered  sheep  thinly  studdirrg  the 
broken  ground.  Aloft,  above  the  ramparts,  rose,  desolate  and 
huge,  the  Palace  of  the  Electors  of  the  Palatinate.  In  its 
broken  walls  you  may  trace  the  tokens  of  the  lightning  that 
blasted  its  ancient  pomp,  but  still  leaves  in  the  vast  extent  of 
pile  a  fitting  monument  of  the  memory  of  Charlemagne. 
Below,  in  the  distance,  spread  the  plain  far  and  spacious,  till 
the  shadowy  river,  with  one  solitary  sail  upon  its  breast,  united 
the  melancholy  scene  of  earth  with  the  autumnal  sky. 

"  See,"  said  Vane,  pointing  to  two  peasants  who  were  con- 
versing near  them  on  the  matters  of  their  little  trade,  utterly 
unconscious  of  the  associations  of  the  spot;  "See,  after  all 
that  is  said  and  clone  about  human  greatness,  it  is  always  the 
greatness  of  the  few.  Ages  pass,  and  leave  the  poor  herd,  the 
mass  of  men,  eternally  the  same — hewers  of  wood  and  drawers 
of  water.  The  pomp  of  princes  has  its  ebb  and  flow,  but  the 
peasant  sells  his  fruit  as  gayly  to  the  stranger  on  the  ruins,  as 
to  the  emperor  in  the  palace." 

"  Will  it  be  always  so  ? "  said  the  student. 

"  Let  us  hope  not,  for  the  sake  of  permanence  in  glory," 
said  Trevylyan  ;  "  had  a  people  built  yonder  palace,  its  splendor 
would  never  have  passed  away." 

Vane  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  Du e  took  snuff. 

But  all  the  impressions  produced  by  the  castle  at  a  distance, 
are  as  nothing  when  you  stand  within  its  vast  area,  and  behold 
the  architecture  of  all  ages  blended  into  one  mighty  ruin  ! 
The  rich  hues  of  the  masonry,  the  sweeping  fayades — every 
description  of  building  which  man  ever  framed  for  war  or  for 
luxury — is  here  ;  all  having  only  the  common  character — RUIN. 
The  feudal  rampart,  the  yawning  fosse,  the  rude  tower,  the 
splendid  arch — the  strength  of  a  fortress,  the  magnificence  of  a 
palace — all  united,  strike  upon  the  soul  like  the  history  of  a 
fallen  empire  in  all  its  epochs. 

"  There  is  one  singular  habitant  of  these  ruins,"  said  the 
student ;  "  a  solitary  painter,  who  has  dwelt  here  some  twenty 
years,  companioned  only  by  his  Art.  No  other  apartment  but 
that  which  he  tenants  is  occupied  by  a  human  being." 

"What  a  poetical  existence!"  cried  Gertrude,  enchanted 
with  a  solitude  so  full  of  associations. 

"  Perhaps  so,"  said  the  cruel  Vane,  ever  anxious  to  dispel 


200  THE    PILGRIMS    OF    THE    RHINE. 

an  illusion  ;  "  but  more  probably  custom  has  deadened  to  him 
all  that  overpowers  ourselves  with  awe  ;  and  he  may  tread 
among  these  ruins  rather  seeking  to  pick  up  some  rude 
morsel  of  antiquity,  than  feeding  his  imagination  with  the  dim 
traditions  that  invest  them  with  so  august  a  poetry." 

"  Monsieur's  conjecture  has  something  of  the  truth  in  it," 
said  the  German  :  "  but  then  the  painter  is  a  Frenchman." 

There  is  a  sense  of  fatality  in  the  singular  mournfulnessand 
majesty  which  belong  to  the  ruins  of  Heidelberg;  contrasting 
the  vastness  of  the  strength  with  the  utterness  of  the  ruin.  It 
has  been  twice  struck  with  lightning,  and  is  the  wreck  of  the 
elements,  not  of  man  :  during  the  great  siege  it  sustained,  the 
lightning  is  supposed  to  have  struck  the  powder  magazine  by 
accident. 

What  a  scene  for  some  great  imaginative  work  !  What 
a  mocking  interference  of  the  wrath  of  nature  in  the  puny 
contests  of  men  !  One  stroke  of  "  the  red  right  arm  "  above 
us,  crushing  the  triumph  of  ages,  and  laughing  to  scorn  the 
power  of  the  beleaguers  and  the  valor  of  the  besieged  ! 

They  passed  the  whole  day  among  these  stupendous  ruins, 
and  felt,  when  they  descended  to  their  inn,  as  if  they  had  left 
the  caverns  of  some  mighty  tomb. 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

NO    PART    OF    THE    EARTH    REALLY    SOLITARY. — THE    SONG     OF 

THE     FAIRIES. THE     SACRED     SPOT. THE     WITCH     OF      THE 

EVIL    WINDS. — THE    SPELL    AND    THE    DUTY    OF  THE  FAIRIES. 

BUT  in  what  spot  of  the  world  is  there  ever  utter  solitude  ? 
The  vanity  of  man  supposes  that  loneliness  is  his  absence  !  Who 
shall  say  what  millions  of  spiritual  beings  glide  invisibly  among 
scenes  apparently  the  most  deserted  ?  Or  what  know  we  of 
our  own  mechanism,  that  we  should  deny  the  possibility  of  life 
and  motion  to  things  that  we  cannot  ourselves  recognize? 

At  moonlight,  in  the  Great  Court  of  Heidelberg,  on  the 
borders  of  the  shattered  basin  overgrown  with  weeds,  the  fol- 
lowing song  was  heard  by  the  melancholy  shades  that  roam 
at  night  through  the  mouldering  halls  of  old,  and  the  gloomy 
hollows  in  the  mountain  of  Heidelberg. 

SONG    OF    THE    FAIRIES    IN    THE    RUINS    OF    HEIDELBERG, 
From  the  woods  and  the  glossy  green, 

With  the  wild  thyme  strewn  ; 
From  the  rivers  whose  crisped  sheen 


THE   PILGRIMS  OF    THE   RHINE.  201 

Is  kissed  by  the  trembling  moon  ; — 
While  the  dwarf  looks  o-it  from  his  mountain  cave, 

And  the  erl-king  from  his  lair, 
And  the  water-nymph  from  her  moaning  wave, — 

We  skirr  the  limber  air. 

There's  a  smile  on  the  vine-clad  shore, 

A  smile  on  the  castled  heights  ; 
They  dream  back  the  days  of  yore, 

And  they  smile  at  our  roundel  rites  ! 
Our  roundel  rites  ! 

Lightly  we  tread  these  halls  around, 

Lightly  tread  we  ; 

Yet,  hark  !  we  have  scared  with  a  single  sound 
The  moping  owl  on  the  breathless  tree, 

And  the  goblin  sprites  ! 

Ha  !  ha  !  we  have  scared  with  a  single  sound 
The  old  gray  owl  on  the  breathless  tree. 
And  the  goblin  sprites  ! 

"  They  come  not,"  said  Pipalee  ;  "  yet  the  banquet  is  pre- 
pared, and  the  poor  queen  will  be  glad  of  some  refreshment." 

"  What  a  pity  !  all  the  rose-leaves  will  be  over-broiled,"  said 
Nip. 

"  Let  us  amuse  ourselves  with  the  old  painter,"  quoth  Trip, 
springing  over  the  ruins. 

"Well  said,"  cried  Pipalee  and  Nip  ;  and  all  three,  leaving 
my  lord-treasurer  amazed  at  their  levity,  whisked  into  the 
painter's  apartment.  Permitting  them  to  throw  the  ink  over 
their  victim's  papers,  break  his  pencils,  mix  his  colors,  mislay 
his  nightcap,  and  go  whiz  against  his  face  in  the  shape  of  a 
great  bat,  till  the  astonished  Frenchman  began  to  think  the 
pensive  goblins  of  the  place  had  taken  a  sprightly  fit — we 
hasten  to  a  small  green  spot  some  little  way  from  the  town, 
in  the  valley  of  the  Neckar,  and  by  the  banks  of  its  silver 
stream.  It  was  circled  round  by  dark  trees,  save  on  that  side 
bordered  by  the  river.  The  wild  flowers  sprang  profusely 
from  the  turf  which  yet  was  smooth  and  singularly  green. 
And  there  was  the  German  fairy  describing  a  circle  round  the 
spot,  and  making  his  elvish  spells.  And  Nymphalin  sat  droop- 
ingly  in  the  centre,  shading  her  face,  which  was  bowed  down  as 
the  head  of  a  water-lily,  and  weeping  crystal  tears. 

There  came  a  hollow  murmur  through  the  trees,  and  a  rush 
as  of  a  mighty  wind,  and  a  dark  form  emerged  from  the 
shadow  and  approached  the  spot. 

The  face  was  wrinkled  and  old,  and  stern  with  a  malevolent 
\nd  evil  aspect.  The  frame  was  lean  and  gaunt,  and  sup- 


262  THE   PILGRIMS  OF   THE   RHINE. 

ported  by  a  Staff,  and  a  short  gray  mantle  covered  its  bended 
shoulders. 

"  Things  of  the  moonbeam  !  "  said  the  form,  in  a  shrill  and 
ghastly  voice  ;  "  what  want  ye  here  ?  And  why  charm  ye  this 
spot  from  the  coming  of  me  and  mine?" 

"  Dark  witch  of  the  blight  and  blast,"  answered  the  fairy, 
"THOU  that  nippest  the  herb  in  its  tender  youth,  and  eatest 
up  the  core  of  the  soft  bud  ;  behold,  it  is  but  a  small  spot  that 
the  fairies  claim  from  thy  demesnes,  and  on  which,  through 
frost  and  heat,  they  will  keep  the  herbage  green  and  the  air 
gentle  in  its  sighs  !  " 

"And,  wherefore,  O  dweller  in  the  crevices  of  the  earth  ! — 
wherefore  wouldst^thou  guard  this  spot  from  the  curses  of  the 
seasons?" 

"  We  know  by  our  instinct,"  answered  the  fairy,  "  that  this 
spot  will  become  the  grave  of  one  whom  the  fairies  love  ; 
hither,  by  an  unfelt  influence,  shall  we  guide  her  yet  living 
steps  ;  and  in  gazing  upon  this  spot,  shall  the  desire  of  quiet 
and  the  resignation  to  death  steal  upon  her  soul.  Behold, 
throughout  the  universe,  all  things  at  war  with  one  another — 
the  lion  with  the  lamb  ;  the  serpent  with  the  bird  :  and  even 
the  gentlest  bird  itself  with  the  moth  of  the  air,  or  the  worm 
of  the  humble  earth  !  What  then  to  men,  and  to  the  spirits 
transcending  men,  is  so  lovely  and  so  sacred  as  a  being  that 
harmeth  none  ?  What  so  beautiful  as  Innocence  ?  What  so 
mournful  as  its  untimely  tomb?  And  shall  not  that  tomb  be 
sacred  ?  Shall  it  not  be  our  peculiar  care  ?  May  we  not 
mourn  over  it  as  at  the  passing  away  of  some  fair  miracle  in 
Nature  ;  too  tender  to  endure,  too  rare  to  be  forgotten  ?  It  is 
for  this,  O  dread  waker  of  the  blast !  that  the  fairies  would 
consecrate  this  little  spot ;  for  this  they  would  charm  away 
from  its  tranquil  turf  the  wandering  ghoul  and  the  evil  children 
of  the  night.  Here,  not  the  ill-omened  owl,  nor  the  blind  bat 
nor  the  unclean  worm,  shall  come.  And  thou  shouldst  have 
neither  will  nor  power  to  nip  the  flowers  of  spring,  nor  seai 
the  green  herbs  of  summer.  Is  it  not,  dark  mother  of  the  evil 
winds !  is  it  not  our  immemorial  office  to  tend  the  grave  of 
Innocence,  and  keep  fresh  the  flowers  round  the  resting-place 
of  Virgin  Love  ? " 

Then  the  witch  drew  her  cloak  round  her,  and  muttered  to 
herself,  and  without  further  answer  turned  away  among  the 
trees  and  vanished,  as  the  breath  of  the  east  wind,  which  goeth 
with  her  as  her  comrade,  scattered  the  melancholy  leaves, 
along  her  path  ! 


THE   PILGRIMS  OF   THE   RHINE.  2OJ 

V 

CHAPTER  XXXI. 

GERTRUDE  AND  TREVYLYAN,  WHEN  THE  FORMER  IS  AWAKENED 
TO  THE  APPROACH  OF  DEATH. 

THE  next  day,  Gertrude  and  her  companions  went  along 
the  banks  of  the  haunted  Neckar.  She  had  passed  a  sleepless 
and  painful  night,  and  her  evanescent  and  child-like  spirits 
had  sobered  down  into  a  melancholy  and  thoughtful  mood. 
She  leaned  back  in  an  open  carriage  with  Trevylyan,  ever 

constant  by  her  side,  while  Du e  and  Vane  rode  slowly  in 

advance.  Trevylyan  tried  in  vain  to  cheer  her;  even  his 
attempts  (usually  so  eagerly  received)  to  charm  her  duller 
moments  by  tale  or  legend,  were,  in  this  instance,  fruitless. 
She  shook  her  head  gently,  pressed  his  hand,  and  said  :  "  No, 
dear  Trevylyan — no;  even  your  art  fails  to-day,  but  your 
kindness,  never  !  "  and  pressing  his  hand  to  her  lips,  she  burst 
passionately  into  tears. 

Alarmed  and  anxious,  he  clasped  her  to  his  breast,  and 
strove  to  lift  her  face,  as  it  drooped  on  its  resting-place,  and 
kiss  away  its  tears. 

"  Oh  ! "  said  she,  at  length,  "  do  not  despise  my  weakness, 
I  am  overcome  by  my  own  thoughts :  I  look  upon  the  world, 
and  see  that  it  is  fair  and  good  ;  1  look  upon  you,  and  I  see 
all  that  I  can  venerate  and  adore.  Life  seems  to  me  so  sweet, 
and  the  earth  so  lovely  ;  can  you  wonder,  then,  that  I  should 
shrink  at  the  thought  of  death  ?  Nay,  interrupt  me  not,  dear 
Albert ;  the  thought  must  be  borne  and  braved.  I  have  not 
cherished,  I  have  not  yielded  to  it  through  my  long-increasing 
illness,  but  there  have  been  times  when  it  has  forced  itself 
upon  me  ;  and  now,  now  more  palpably  than  ever.  Do  not 
think  me  weak  and  childish,  I  never  feared  death  till  I  knew 
you  ;  but  to  see  you  no  more — never  again  to  touch  this  dear 
hand,  never  to  thank  you  for  your  love,  never  to  be  sensible 
of  your  care — to  lie  down  and  sleep,  and  never.,  never,  once 
more  to  dream  of  you !  Ah!  that  is  a  bitter  thought!  but  I 
will  brave  it — yes,  brave  it  as  one  worthy  of  your  regard." 

Trevylyan,  choked  by  his  emotions,  covered  his  own  face 
with  his  hands,  and,  leaning  back  in  the  carriage,  vainly 
struggled  with  his  sobs. 

"  Perhaps,"  she  said,  yet  ever  and  anon  clinging  to  the  hope 
that  had  utterly  abandoned  him  ;  "  Perhaps,  I  may  yet  deceive 
myself  ;  and  my  love  for  you,  which  seems  to  me  as  if  it  could 
conquer  death,  may  bear  me  up  against  this  fell  disease  ;  the 


204  THE   PILGRIMS   OF    THE    RHINE. 

hope  to  live  with  you,  to  watch  you,  to  share  your  high 
dreams,  and  oh  !  above  all,  to  soothe  you  in  sorrow  and  sick- 
ness, as  you  have  soothed  me — has  not  that  hope  something 
that  may  support  even  this  sinking  frame?  'And  who  shall 
love  thee  as  I  love  ?  Who  see  thee  as  I  have  seen  ?  Who 
pray  for  thee  in  gratitude  and  tears  as  I  have  prayed  ?  Oh, 
Albert,  so  little  am  I  jealous  of  you,  so  little  do  1  think  of  my- 
self in  comparison,  that  I  could  close  my  eyes  happily  on  the 
world,  if  1  knew  that  what  I  could  be  to  thee,  another  will 
be!" 

"  Gertrude,"  said  Trevylyan  ;  and  lifting  up  his  colorless 
face,  he  gazed  upon  her  with  an  earnest  and  calm  solemnity. 
"Gertrude,  let  us  be  united  at  once  !  If  Fate  must  sever  us, 
let  her  cut  the  last  tie  too ;  let  us  feel  at  least  that  on  earth 
we  have  been  all  in  all  to  each  other  ;  let  us  defy  death,  even 
as  it  frowns  upon  us.  Be  mine  to-morrow — this  day — oh, 
God  !  be  mine  !  " 

Over  even  that,  pale  countenance,  beneath  whose  hues  the 
lamp  of  life  so  faintly  fluttered,  a  deep,  radiant  flash  passed 
one  moment,  lighting  up  the  beautiful  ruin  with  the  glow  of 
maiden  youth  and  impassioned  hope,  and  then  died  rapidly 
away. 

"  No,  Albert,"  she  said,  sighing  ;  "  No  !  it  must  not  be  :  far 
easier  would  come  the  pang  to  you,  while  yet  we  are  not  wholly 
united  ;  and  for  my  own  part,  I  am  selfish,  and  feel  as  if  I 
should  leave  a  tenderer  remembrance  on  your  heart,  thus 
parted — tenderer,  but  not  so  sad.  I  would  not  wish  you  to 
feel  yourself  widowed  to  my  memory  ;  I  would  not  cling  like 
a  blight  to  your  fair  prospects  of  the  future.  Remember  me 
rather  as  a  dream  ;  as  something  never  wholly  won,  and  there- 
fore asking  no  fidelity  but  that  of  kind  and  forbearing  thoughts. 
Do  you  remember  one  evening  as  we  sailed  along  the  Rhine — 
ah  !  happy,  happy  hours  ! — that  we  heard  from  the  banks  a 
strain  of  music,  not  so  skilfully  played  as  to  be  worth  listening 
to  for  itself,  but,  suiting  as  it  did  the  hour  and  the  scene,  we 
remained  silent,  that  we  might  hear  it  the  better  ;  and  when  it 
died  insensibly  upon  the  waters,  a  certain  melancholy  stole 
over  us  ;  we  felt  that  a  something  that  softened  the  landscape 
had  gone,  and  we  conversed  less  lightly  than  before?  Just 
so,  my  own  loved,  my  own  adored  Trevylyan,  just  so  is  the 
influence  that  our  brief  love — your  poor  Gertrude's  existence, 
should  bequeath  to  your  remembrance.  A  sound — a  pres- 
ence—should haunt  you  for  a  little  while,  but  no  more,  ere 
you  again  become  sensible  of  the  glories  that  court  your  way  !" 


THE    PILGRIMS   OF    THE    RHINE.  205 

But  as  Gertrude  said  this,  she  turned  to  Trevylyan,  and 
seeing  his  agony,  she  could  refrain  no  longer  ;  she  felt  that  to 
soothe  was  to  insult  ;  and,  throwing  herself  upon  his  breast, 
they  mingled  their  tears  together. 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

A    SPOT    TO    BE    BURIED    IN. 

ON  their  return  homeward,  Du e  took  the  third  seat  in 

the  carriage,  and  endeavored,  with  his  usual  vivacity,  to  cheer 
the  spirits  of  his  companions  ;  and  such  was  the  elasticity  of 
Gertrude's  nature,  that  with  her,  he,  to  a  certain  degree,  suc- 
ceeded in  his  kindly  attempt.  Quickly  alive  to  the  charms  of 
scenery,  she  entered  by  degrees  into  the  external  beauties 
which  every  turn  in  the  road  opened  to  their  view  ;  and  the 
silvery  smoothness  of  the  river,  that  made  the  constant  attrac- 
tion of  the  landscape  ;  the  serenity  of  the  time,  and  the  clear- 
ness of  the  heavens,  tended  to  tranquillize  a  mind  that,  like  a 
sunflower,  so  instinctively  turned  from  the  shadow  to  the 
light. 

Once  Du- e  stopped  the  carriage  in  a  spot  of  herbage, 

bedded  among  the  trees,  and  said  to  Gertrude  :  "  We  are  now 
in  one  of  the  many  places  along  the  Neckar  which  your  favor- 
ite traditions  serve  to  consecrate.  Amidst  yonder  copses,  in 
the  early  ages  of  Christianity,  there  dwelt  a  hermit,  who, 
though  young  in  years,  was  renowned  for  the  sanctity  of  his 
life.  None  knew  whence  he  came,  nor  for  what  cause  he  had 
limited  the  circle  of  life  to  the  seclusion  of  his  cell.  He  rarely 
spoke,  save  when  his  ghostly  advice,  or  his  kindly  prayer,  was 
needed;  he  lived  upon  herbs,  and  the  wild  fruits  which  the 
peasants  brought  to  his  cave  ;  and  every  morning  and  every 
evening,  he  came  to  this  spot  to  fill  his  pitcher  .from  the  water 
of  the  stream.  But  here  he  was  observed  to  linger  long  after 
his  task  was  done,  and  to  sit  gazing  upon  the  walls  of  a  con- 
vent which  then  rose  upon  the  opposite  side  of  the  bank,  though 
now  even  its  ruins  are  gone.  Gradually  his  health  gave  way 
beneath  the  austerities  he  practised  ;  and  one  evening  he  was 
found  by  some  fishermen  insensible  on  the  turf.  They  bore 
him  for  medical  aid  to  the  opposite  convent ;  and  one  of  the 
sisterhood,  the  daughter  of  a  prince,  was  summoned  to  tend 
the  recluse.  But  when  his  eyes  opened  upon  hers,  a  sudden 
recognition  appeared  to  seize  both.  He  spoke  ;  and  the  sister 
threw  herself  on  the  couch  of  the  dying  man,  and  shrieked 


906  THE    PILGRIMS   OF    THE    RHINE. 

forth  a  name,  the  most  famous  in  the  surrounding  country — 
the  name  of  a  once  noted  minstrel,  who,  in  those  rude  times, 
had  mingled  the  poet  with  the  lawless  chief,  and  was  supposed, 
years  since,  to  have  fallen  in  one  of  the  desperate  frays  between 
prince  and  outlaw,  which  were  then  common  ;  storming  the 
very  castle  which  held  her,  now  the  pious  nun,  then  the  beauty 
and  presider  over  the  tournament  and  galliard.  In  her  arms 
the  spirit  of  the  hermit  passed  away.  She  survived  but  a  few 
hours,  and  left  conjecture  busy  with  a  history  to  which  it  never 
obtained  further  clue.  Many  a  troubadour,  in  later  times, 
furnished  forth  in  poetry  the  details  which  truth  refused  to 
supply  ;  and  the  place  where  the  hermit  at  sunrise  and  sunset 
ever  came  to  gaze  upon  the  convent  became  consecrated  by 
song." 

The  place  invested  with  this  legendary  interest  was  impressed 
with  a  singular  aspect  of  melancholy  quiet  ;  wild  flowers  yet 
lingered  on  the  turf,  whose  grassy  sedges  gently  overhung  the 
Neckar,  that  murmured  amidst  them  with  a  plaintive  music. 
Not  a  wind  stirred  the  trees  ;  but,  at  a  little  distance  from  the 
place,  the  spire  of  a  church  rose  amidst  the  copse  ;  and,  as 
they  paused,  they  suddenly  heard  from  the  holy  building  the 
bell  that  summons  to  the  burial  of  the  dead.  It  came  on  the 
ear  in  such  harmony  with  the  spot,  with  the  hour,  with  the 
breathing  calm,  that  it  thrilled  to  the  heart  of  each  with  an 
inexpressible  power.  It  was  like  the  voice  of  another  world 
that  amidst  the  solitude  of  nature  summoned  the  lulled  spirit 
from  the  cares  of  this  ;  it  invited,  not  repulsed,  and  had  in  its 
tone  more  of  softness  than  of  awe. 

Gertrude  turned,  with  tears  starting  to  her  eyes,  and,  laying 
her  hand  on  Trevylyan's,  whispered  :  "  In  such  a  spot,  so 
calm,  so  sequestered,  yet  in  the  neighborhood  of  the  house  of 
God,  would  I  wish  this  broken  frame  to  be  consigned  to  rest !  " 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 

THE  CONCLUSION  OF  THIS  TALE. 

FROM  that  day  Gertrude's  spirit  resumed  its  wonted  cheer- 
fulness, and  for  the  ensuing  week  she  never  reverted  to  her  ap- 
proaching fate  ;  she  seemed  once  more  to  have  grown  uncon- 
scious of  its  limit.  Perhaps  she  sought,  anxious  for  Trevylyan 
to  the  last,  not  to  throw  additional  gloom  over  their  earthly 
separation  ;  or,  perhaps,  once  steadily  regarding  the  certainty 
of  her  doom,  its  terrors  vanished.  The  chords  of  thought, 


THE    PILGRIMS    OF    THE    RHI^E.  207 

vibrating  to  the  subtlest  emotions,  may  be  changed  by  a  single 
incident,  or  in  a  single  hour  ;  a  sound  of  sacred  music,  a  green 
and  quiet  burial-place,  may  convert  the  form  of  death  into  the 
aspect  of  an  angel.  And  therefore  wisely,  and  with  a  beauti- 
ful lore,  did  the  Greeks  strip  the  grave  of  its  unreal  gloom  ; 
wisely  did  they  body  forth  the  great  Principle  of  Rest  by 
solemn  and  lovely  images — unconscious  of  the  northern  mad- 
ness that  made  a  Spectre  of  REPOSE  ! 

But  while  Gertrude's  spirit  resumed  its  healthful  tone,  her 
frame  rapidly  declined,  and  a  few  days  now  could  do  the  rav- 
age of  months  a  little  while  before. 

One  evening,  amidst  the  desolate  ruins  of  Heidelberg, 
Trevylyan,  who  had  gone  forth  alone  to  indulge  the  thoughts 
which  he  strove  to  stifle  in  Gertrude's  presence,  suddenly  en- 
countered Vane.  That  calm  and  almost  callous  pupil  of  the 
adversities  of  the  world  was  standing  alone,  and  gazing  upon 
the  shattered  casements  and  riven  tower,  through  which  the 
sun  now  cast  its  slant  and  parting  ray. 

Trevylyan,  who  had  never  loved  this  cold  and  unsusceptible 
man,  save  for  the  sake  of  Gertrude,  felt  now  almost  a  hatred 
creep  over  him,  as  he  thought  in  such  a  time,  and  with  death 
fastening  upon  the  flower  of  her  house,  he  could  yet  be  calm, 
and  smile,  and  muse,  and  moralize,  and  play  the  common  part 
of  the  world.  He  strode  slowly  up  to  him,  and  standing  full 
before  him,  said  with  a  hollow  voice  and  writhing  smile  :  "  You 
amuse  yourself  pleasantly,  sir  :  this  is  a  fine  scene  ;  and  to 
meditate  over  griefs  a  thousand  years  hushed  to  rest  is  better 
than  watching  over  a  sick  girl,  and  eating  away  your  heart  with 
fear  !  " 

Vane  looked  at  him  quietly,  but  intently,  and  made  no 
reply. 

"Vane  ! "  continued  Trevylyan,  with  the  same  preternatural 
attempt  at  calm  ;  "  Vane,  in  a  few  days  all  will  be  over,  and 
you  and  I,  the  things,  the  plotters,  the  false  men  of  the  world, 
will  be  left  alone — left  by  the  sole  Being  that  graces  our  dull 
life,  that  makes,  by  her  love,  either  of  us  worthy  of  a  thought  !  " 

Vane  started,  and  turned  away  his  face.  "  You  are  cruel," 
said  he,  with  a  faltering  voice. 

"  What,  man  !  "  shouted  Trevylyan,  seizing  him  abruptly  by 
the  arm,  "  can  j^  feel  ?  Is  your  cold  heart  touched  ?  Come, 
then,"  added  he,  with  a  wild  laugh,  "  come,  let  us  be  friends  !  " 

Vane  drew  himself  aside,  with  a  certain  dignity,  that  im- 
pressed Trevylyan  even  at  that  hour.  "Some  years  hence," 
said  he,  "  you  will  be  called  cold  as  I  am  :  sorrow  will  teach 


208  THE    PILGRIMS    OF    THE    RHINE.     . 

you  the  wisdom  of  indifference — it  is  a  bitter  school,  sir,  a  bit- 
ter school  !  But  think  you  that  I  do  indeed  see  unmoved  my 
last  hope  shivered — the  last  tie  that  binds  me  to  my  kind  ? 
No,  no  !  I  feel  it  as  a  man  may  feel  ;  I  cloak  it  as  a  man  grown 
gray  in  misfortune  should  do  !  My  child  is  more  to  me  than 
your  betrothed  to  you  :  for  you  are  young  and  wealthy,  and 
life  smiles  before  you  ;  but  I — no  more,  sir — no  more." 

"  Forgive  me,"  said  Trevylyan  humbly  ;  "  I  have  wronged 
you  ;  but  Gertrude  is  an  excuse  for  any  crime  of  love  ;  and 
now  listen  to  my  last  prayer — give  her  to  me — even  on  the 
verge  of  the  grave.  Death  cannot  seize  her  in  the  arms — in 
the  vigils — of  a  love  like  mine." 

Vane  shuddered.  "'It  were  to  wed  the  dead,"  said  he — 
"No!" 

Trevylyan  drew  back,  and  without  another  word,  hurried 
away ;  he  returned  to  the  town  ;  he  sought,  with  methodical 
calmness,  the  owner  of  the  piece  of  ground  in  which  Gertrude 
had  wished  to  be  buried.  He  purchased  it,  and  that  very 
night  he  sought  the  priest  of  a  neighboring  church,  and 
directed  it  should  be  consecrated  according  to  the  due  rite  and 
ceremonial. 

The  priest,  an  aged  and  pious  man,  was  struck  by  the  request, 
and  the  air  of  him  who  made  it. 

"  Shall  it  be  done  forthwith,  sir  ?  "  said  he,  hesitating. 

"  Forthwith,"  answered  Trevylyan,  with  a  calm  smile — "  a 
bridegroom,  you  know,  is  naturally  impatient." 

For  the  next  three  days,  Gertrude  was  so  ill  as  to  be  con- 
fined to  her  bed.  All  that  time  Trevylyan  sat  outside  her 
door,  without  speaking,  scarcely  lifting  his  eyes  from  the 
ground.  The  attendants  passed  to  and  fro — he  heeded  them 
not ;  perhaps  as  even  the  foreign  menials  turned  aside  and 
wiped  their  eyes,  and  prayed  God  to  comfort  him,  he  required 
compassion  less  at  that  time  than  any  other.  There  is  a 
stupefaction  in  woe,  and  the  heart  sleeps  without  a  pang  when 
exhausted  by  its  afflictions. 

But  on  the  fourth  day  Gertrude  rose,  and  was  carried  down 
(how  changed,  yet  how  lovely  ever  ! )  to  their  common  apart- 
ment. During  those  three  days  the  priest  had  been  with  her 
often,  and  her  spirit,  full  of  religion  from  her  childhood,  had 
been  unspeakably  soothed  by  his  comfort.  She  took  food 
from  the  hand  of  Trevylyan  ;  she  smiled  upon  him  as  sweetly 
as  of  old.  She  conversed  with  him,  though  with  a  faint  voice, 
and  at  broken  intervals.  But  she  felt  no  pain  ;  life  ebbed 
away  gradually,  and  without  a  pang.  "  My  father,"  she  said 


THE    PILGRIMS    OF    THE    RHINE.  209 

to  Vane,  whose  features  still  bore  their  usual  calm,  whatever 
might  have  passed  within,  "  I  know  that  you  will  grieve  when 
I  am  gone  more  than  the  world  might  guess  ;  for  I  alone  know 
what  you  were  years  ago,  ere  friends  left  you  and  fortune 
frowned,  and  ere  my  poor  mother  died.  But  do  not — do  not 
believe  that  hope  and  comfort  leave  you  with  me.  Till  the 
heaven  pass  away  from  the  earth,  there  shall  be  comfort  and 
hope  for  all." 

They  did  not  lodge  in  the  town,  but  had  fixed  their  abode 
on  its  outskirts,  and  within  sight  of  the  Neckar  ;  and  from  the 
window  they  saw  a  light  sail  gliding  gayly  by,  till  it  passed, 
and  solitude  once  more  rested  upon  the  waters. 

"  The  sail  passes  from  our  eyes,"  said  Gertrude,  pointing  to 
it,  "  but  still  it  glides  on  as  happily  though  we  see  it  no  more  ; 
and  I  feel — yes,  father,  I  feel — I  know  that  it  is  so  with  us. 
We  glide  down  the  river  of  time  from  the  eyes  of  men,  but  we 
cease  not  the  less  to  be  !  " 

And  now,  as  the  twilight  descended,  she  expressed  a  wish, 
before  she  retired  to  rest,  to  be  left  alone  with  Trevylyan.  lie 
was  hot  then  sitting  by  her  side,  for  he  would  not  trust  him- 
self to  do  so  ;  but  with  his  face  averted,  at  a  little  distance  from 
her.  She  called  htm  by  his  name ;  he  answered  not  nor 
turned.  Weak  as  she  was,  she  raised  herself  from  the  sofa, 
and  crept  gently  along  the  floor  till  she  came  to  him,  and  sank 
in  his  arms. 

"  Ah,  unkind  !  "  she  said,  "unkind  for  once  !  Will  you  turn 
away  from  me  ?  Come,  let  us  look  once  more  on  the  river  : 
see  !  the  night  darkens  over  it.  Our  pleasant  voyage,  the  type 
of  our  love,  is  finished;  our  sail  may  be  unfurled  no  more. 
Never  again  can  your  voice  soothe  the  lassitude  of  sickness, 
with  the  legend  and  the  song — the  course  is  run,  the  vessel  is 
broken  up,  night  closes  over  its  fragments  ;  but  now,  in  this 
hour,  love  me,  be  kin'd  to  me  as  ever.  Still  let  me  be  your 
own  Gertrude — still  let  me  close  my  eyes  this  night,  as  before, 
with  the  sweet  consciousness  that  I  am  loved." 

"Loved  !     O  Gertrude  !  speak  not:to  me  thus  !  " 

"  Come,  that  is  yourself  again  !  "  and  she  clung  with  weak 
arms  caressingly  to  his  breast.  "And  now,"  she  said  more 
solemnly,  "  let  us  forget  that  we  are  mortal  ;  let  us  remember 
only  that  life  is  a  part,  not  the  whole,  of  our  career  ;  let  us 
feel  in  this  soft  hour,  and  while  yet  we  are  unsevered,  the 
presence  of  The  Eternal  that  is  within  us,  so  that  it  shall  not 
be  as  death,  but  as  a  short  absence  ;  and  when  once  the  pang 
of  parting  is  over,  you  must  think  only  that  we  are  shortly  to 


210  THE    PILGRIMS   OF    THE    RHINE. 

meet  again.  What  !  you  turn  from  me  still  ?  See,  I  do  not 
weep  or  grieve,  I  have  conquered  the  pang  of  our  absence  ; 
will  you  be  outdone  by  me  ?  Do  you  remember,  Albert,  that 
you  once  told  me  how  the  wisest  of  the  sages  of  old,  in  prison, 
and  before  death,  consoled  his  friends  with  the  proof  of  the 
immortality  of  the  soul.  Is  it  not  a  consolation  ? — does  it  not 
suffice  ;  or  will  you  deem  it  wise  from  the  lips  of  wisdom,  but 
vain  from  the  lips  of  love  ? " 

"Hush,  hush  .'"said  Trevylyan  wildly;  "or  I  shall  think 
you  an  angel  already." 

But  let  us  close  this  commune,  and  leave  unrevealed  the 
last  sacred  words  that  ever  passed  between  them  upon  earth. 

When  Vane  and  the  physician  stole  back  softly  into  the 
room,  Trevylyan  motioned  to  them  to  be  still  :  "  She  sleeps," 
he  whispered  ;  "  hush  !  "  And  in  truth,  wearied  out  by  her 
own  emotions,  and  lulled  by  the  belief  that  she  had  soothed 
one  with  whom  her  heart  dwelt  now,  as  ever,  she  had  fallen 
into  sleep,  or  it  may  be,  insensibility,  on  his  breast.  There  as 
she  lay,  so  fair,  so  frail,  so  delicate,  the  twilight  deepened  into 
shade,  and  the  first  star,  like  the  hope  of  the  future,  broke 
forth  upon  the  darkness  of  the  earth. 

Nothing  could  equal  the  stillness  without,  save  that  which 
lay  breathlessly  within.  For  not  one  of  the  group  stirred  or 
spoke  ;  and  Trevylyan  bending  over  her,  never  took  his  eyes 
from  her  face,  watching  the  parted  lips,  and  fancying  that  he 
imbibed  the  breath.  Alas,  the  breath  was  stilled  !  From 
sleep  to  death  she  had  glided  without  a  sigh  :  happy,  most 
happy  in  that  death  ! — cradled  in  the  arms  of  unchanged  love, 
and  brightened  in  her  last  thought  by  the  consciousness  of 

innocence  and  the  assurance  of  heaven  ! 

*  *  *  *  *  *  * 

Trevylyan,  after  long  sojourn  on  the  Continent,  returned  to 
England.  He  plunged  into  active  life,  and  became  what  is 
termed,  in  this  age  of  little  names,  a  distinguished  and  noted 
man.  But  what  was  mainly  remarkable  in  his  future  conduct, 
was  his  impatience  of  rest.  He  eagerly  courted  all  occupa- 
tions, even  of  the  most  varied  and  motley  kind.  Business — 
letters — ambition — pleasure.  He  suffered  no  pause  in  his 
career;  and  leisure  to  him  was  as  care  to  others.  He  lived 
in  the  world,  as  the  worldly  do,  discharging  its  duties,  foster- 
ing its  affections,  and  fulfilling  its  career.  But  there  was  a 
deep  and  wintry  change  within  him — the  sunlight  of  his  life 
was  gone  ;  the  loveliness  of  romance  had  left  the  earth.  The 
stern  was  proof  as  heretofore  to  the  blast,  but  the  green  leaves 


THE    PILGRIMS   OF    THE    RHINE.  211 

were  severed  from  it  forever,  and  the  bird  had  forsaken  its 
boughs.  Once  he  had  idolized  the  beauty  that  is  born  of 
song  ;  the  glory  and  the  ardor  that  invest  such  thoughts  as 
are  not  of  our  common  clay  ;  but  the  well  of  enthusiasm  was 
dried  up,  and  the  golden  bowl  was  broken  at  the  fountain. 
With  Gertrude  the  poetry  of  existence  was  gone.  As  she  her- 
self  had  described  her  loss,  a  music  had  ceased  to  breathe 
along  the  face  of  things  ;  and  though  the  bark  might  sail  on 
as  swiftly,  and  the  stream  swell  with  as  proud  a  wave,  a  some- 
thing that  had  vibrated  on  the  heart  was  still,  and  the  magic  of 
the  voyage  was  no  more. 

And  Gertrude  sleeps  on  the  spot  where  she  wished  her  last 
couch  to  be  made  ;  and  far — oh,  far  dearer  is  that  small  spot 
on  the  distant  banks  of  the  gliding  Neckar  to  Trevylyan's 
heart,  than  all  the  broad  lands  and  fertile  fields  of  his  ances- 
tral domain.  The  turf,  too,  preserves  its  emerald  greenness  ; 
and  it  would  seem  to  me  that  the  field-flowers  spring  up  by 
the  sides  of  the  simple  tomb  even  more  profusely  than  of  old. 
A  curve  in  the  bank  breaks  the  tide  of  the  Neckar  ;  and 
therefore  its  stream  pauses,  as  if  to  linger  reluctantly,  by  that 
solitary  grave,  and  to  mourn  among  the  rustling  sedges  ere  it 
passes  on.  And  I  have  thought,  when  I  last  looked  upon  that 
quiet  place — when  I  saw  the  turf  so  fresh,  and  the  flov/ers  so 
bright  of  hue,  that  aerial  hands  might  indeed  tend  the  sod  ; 
that  it  was  by  no  imaginary  spells  that  I  summoned  the  fairies 
to  my  tale  ;  that  in  truth,  and  with  vigils  constant  though  un- 
seen, they  yet  kept  from  all  polluting  footsteps,  and  from  the 
harsher  influence  of  the  seasons,  the  grave  of  one  who  so  loved 
their  race  ;  and  who,  in  her  gentle  and  spotless  virtue,  claimed 
kindred  with  the  beautiful  Ideal  of  the  world.  Is  there  one  of 
us  who  has  not  known  some  being  for  whom  it  seemed  not  too 
wild  a  phantasy  to  indulge  such  dreams  ? 


THE   END. 


A     001  002  424 


